


Know Me By My Pieces

by veroreos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Er. The Force and traditional fantasy magic are fused? idk, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Force-Sensitive Reader, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Grief/Mourning, Mentioned Jango Fett, No use of y/n, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Soft Boba Fett, The Force Is Replaced By Magic (Star Wars), Threats, Young Boba to start and will eventually get to Older Boba, chapters with sexual content are marked NSFW, listen. LISTEN. all I want is strong men that YEARN, no described genitalia for the reader, this got so much softer than I planned I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29490825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veroreos/pseuds/veroreos
Summary: After what might be the most tense moment of silence yet (which is almost impressive, considering how uncomfortable some of the other silences have been), Fett stalks across the room over to you, stopping only after crowding your personal space. You would crane your neck to look up at him, but instead he leans down to speak lowly into your ear. “This better be worth it, or I may auction you off to the Empire. Or, better yet—I’m sure the Hutts would enjoy having a mage at their disposal. They like to keep cute things like you on leashes.”His words have the desired effect of sending a chill down your spine. After swallowing hard, you turn slightly, trying to meet his eyes out of your peripheral without accidentally touching your face to his helm. “You think I’m cute?”
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader
Comments: 50
Kudos: 116





	1. Means to an End

**Author's Note:**

> I have a midterm paper due in 10 hours and my life has been a literal nightmare for the past few weeks so I was like, "fuck it, I'm just gonna write the most self indulgent garbage one-shot," and then I had already written this much and still have a ton more planned and I just REALLY need to post it so I stop thinking about it and here we are! Don't fucking look at me

You woke that morning with a sinking feeling in your stomach, and you knew today was going to bring trouble.

There was nothing else to indicate it—the sky was clear all morning with nary a cloud in sight, there was a light breeze making it the perfect temperature to wear your favorite tunic, when you went foraging you found each and every one of the ingredients on your list before noon meaning you could enjoy the rest of your day in leisure—all of the usual mundane pleasures that came with the lowkey lifestyle you’d chosen to curate for yourself.

But you knew better. Even if you hadn’t actively sought it in ages, you could still _feel_ the Force, whether you wanted to or not, and that dread resting in your heart persisted no matter how much you tried to enjoy the day.

So when one of the young women from the local inn intercepted you on your way back from the forest, you prepared yourself for bad news behind the smile you put on for her. “Giselda, shouldn’t you be helping your sister?”

Her grim expression does little to soothe your restless nerves. “She’s the one who sent me—there was a man at the inn asking questions. Questions about _you_.”

“A man?” You tighten the strap on your satchel, so that it sits more firmly on your hip. Just in case you need to start running. “I’m assuming if he was an Imperial, you would have led with that. What kind of man?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t wear anything Imperial, but he had a whole suit of fancy armor we didn’t recognize.” Giselda nervously wrings her hands together, glancing between you and the town in the distance. “He didn’t ask for you by name, but he said he was looking for our apothecary. Told him that you’d probably be gone at least all morning, not sure when you’d be back. Nelna tried to offer him some mead to see if he’d stick around, but he took off as quickly as he came.”

You crinkle your brows as you think, running through your mental list of contacts. Do you know anyone with ‘fancy armor’? Surely you’d remember if you did. Armor is expensive these days, very few people roam around like that unless they _need_ to. When nobody comes to mind, you sigh and put a hand on Giselda’s shoulder. “Right then. Thank you, and give Nelna my thanks as well. I’ll handle this.”

Giselda doesn’t look quite convinced, but she gives you a slow nod anyway, knowing there’s not much else she can offer. “Please, be careful.” You wave her off and watch her go back into town, waiting for a few moments before you resign to confronting whatever waits at your shop.

The modest little store sits on the edge of town, on the path leading to and fro the nearby forest. It’s not exactly isolated, but it is a bit of a walk from the town’s central plaza, and even further from the local militia outpost. If there’s going to be trouble, nobody’s going to be there to help you for some time. That might be better though, to keep everyone out of harm’s way if it does come down to that.

Everything looks fine upon arrival. Your quaint storefront looks untouched and nobody is outside waiting for you. For a brief moment, you dare to hope that it was a false alarm and that it’s going to be alright—

And when you go to unlock the door, you find that it has already been opened, gently swinging inward with a tentative press of your hand. The old thing creaks on its hinges, no doubt drawing the attention of whoever might be in there, and you decide you might as well go all in, pushing the door the rest of the way open to reveal yourself.

The bastard’s leaning on your front counter like he owns the place, and you would absolutely toss him out if you didn’t recognize his armor.

Fear is immediately replaced by intrigue, your eyebrows shooting up as you take a few tentative steps into the shop. “Aren’t you a little far from home, Mandalorian?”

His helm tilts, a hint of amusement to his cocky swagger. “Same could be said of you, little Jedi.”

You can’t help yourself and respond by slamming the door shut behind you with your magic, keeping your gaze focused on him as the dust around you settles after being displaced by the sudden movement. When you speak, it’s through gritted teeth. “That is not what I am, and I would not throw that word around lightly if I were you.”

The Mandalorian raises both hands in a mock-surrendering gesture. “I don’t care what you call yourself, I just need your services.” You put a hand on your hip, raising an eyebrow as you gesture for him to continue. “There’s someone I need to find.”

“In case you hadn’t noticed, this is an apothecary, not a divination circle.” Sensing that this encounter isn’t going to be brief, you begrudgingly remove your satchel, moving past the man to get behind the counter. Your back is to him as you begin removing your collected herbs and fungi, sorting them into bundles and cups. “Besides, aren’t you Mandalorians trackers? Surely you don’t need a washed out mage to do your job.”

His gaze is practically burning a hole into the back of your head, and you can hear the faint creaking of leather as he shifts to watch you. “The trail’s been cold since long before the matter was passed to me.” To his credit, he sounds fairly annoyed about the whole matter, which makes you feel better since you are _more than unhappy_ about it. “Nobody’s sure if the bounty is still alive or not.”

You pause in your task, sighing deeply before turning to look at him again. He’s still on the other side of the counter, but his posture has straightened up, looking more business than attitude now. You try not to think about how tall and broad he is or how easy it would be for him to block your only escape route. “Do you understand what you’re asking me? You want me to try to find a _stranger’s_ life force, which could be _anywhere_ out there in the world, _if_ he’s even still alive?”

He has the audacity to laugh, short and sharp. “Hence why I need a washed out mage.”

Well—that one’s on you, you can’t even be mad at that.

“What’s in it for me?” You step over to the counter separating the two of you, drumming your fingers along the polished oak surface. “I have plenty of better things I could be doing.”

He pointedly glances to your back counter, as if to say, ‘like gathering flowers?’ Instead of saying that, he leans forward, lowering his voice. “You help me, and I _don’t_ hand you over to the Empire.”

Before you can stop yourself, you outright laugh in his face. “You think I haven’t had to run before, Mando? Please. I could pack up and be gone before nightfall.” His shoulders go rigid, stance tensing, but you stand your ground. “I want a cut. 20-80.”

There’s a terse beat of silence as he stares blankly at you, the visor of his helmet completely unreadable. “You can have _5._ ”

“Make it 10, and I’ll throw in a gallon of healing salve.”

“I’m not a fucking _customer_. No higher than 5, take it or leave it.”

Truthfully, you didn’t think you’d get even that much. “Deal.” You don’t bother shaking his hand, instead moving to one of the large cabinets sitting along a wall of the room to start digging through the drawers. “It sounds like you’ve done your research, so what did you bring for me to scry with?”

His stance relaxes somewhat as he opens a pouch on his belt, pulling out a bundle of tattered cloth that looks like it’s been through hell and back. “Only thing that was left of the quarry is the remains of his coat.”

You sigh again, this time clearly for theatrics. “I _suppose_ I can make due with that. Put it on the counter.” You walk back over with some materials in hand and dump them alongside the ruined cloth. “I’ll warn you right now, this isn’t going to be a quick process.”

“Didn’t expect it to be.”

“It could take anywhere from a few hours to a few days.” The tilt of his head is nearly imperceptible, but you catch it nonetheless. “It’s going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack, without being sure if the needle is actually there or not.”

After a brief consideration, he nods. “Fine. Not like there’s a rush.”

He should be more grateful than that, but you’re quickly learning not to expect anything from this man. “Well then, make yourself comfortable. You’re going to be here for a while.”

He watches you set up with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning in the doorway of your living space above the shop. It’s a small room, even compared to how modest the store itself is, and his presence seems to loom over everything. It’d be unsettling if you weren’t busy flipping through old books on divination you haven’t touched in years, absentmindedly chewing on a chunk of bread you’d put in your mouth while your hands busy themselves. You might not be the picture of elegance, but you’ve always valued practicality over everything else.

All of your furniture has to be pushed to the walls to clear as much floor space as possible. The hunter doesn’t offer to help, likely having already figured that you wouldn’t accept it. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking as he watches you, silent and unmoving, statuesque in comparison to the way you’re scurrying around. As you push a low tea table aside with your leg, hands preoccupied holding one of the books open to a particular diagram, you look up at him and say something that comes out completely muffled around the bread still in your mouth. He sounds somewhat amused in turn. “That’s considered poor manners, you know.”

Narrowing your eyes, you pin the book open against your side with one arm, freeing the other to tear off a piece of bread with your mouth and pulling the rest away. “So is breaking into someone’s shop when you want to ask them for help,” you respond, mid-chew. “How much do you know about this person you’re looking for?”

"He was a pirate captain operating off the coast of Coruscant. Plenty of pissed off nobles lost a lot of money to him and his crew, but his first mate's the one still looking for blood."

“Let me guess--the captain stole some big treasure for himself and disappeared?”

“He also knocked up the first mate’s wife.”

You wince, sucking in a breath through your teeth. “Well. I’m sure that made for some awkward family dinners.” Once the floor is clear, you walk over to the hunter, handing him the open book. “Hold this up for me.”

He’s clearly not fond of being bossed around, but he thankfully doesn’t bother complaining, instead simply letting out an indignant snort before taking the book and holding it up with one hand. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“If I say ‘no,’ are you really going to stop me?” You hear an unimpressed hum resonating from within the helmet, but no further objections. That’s enough commitment for you, so you start drawing the appropriate glyph on your floor with an old piece of white chalk, beginning with a large circle and followed by many runes along the inner edge. This takes up most of your focus, and you nearly forget that the man is there until he readjusts his grip on the book to display the pages more clearly. “Thank you...uh.” You pause, cheeks heating up as you realize what you’re about to ask might be awkward. “Do you have a name I can call you? I know how Mandalorians are about the whole ‘identity’ business—”

“Not all of us,” he says bluntly. “The Mandalorians have been scattered into factions for some time now. Not everyone clings to the old ways.” You simply blink at him until he realizes you’re waiting for an answer. “Boba Fett.”

“Alright, Sir Fett,” you say with a cheeky smile, introducing yourself properly in return. Something in the way he stares at you feels like he’s making a face at the title, but it’s hard to say for sure. You don’t dwell on it and go back to the task at hand. “Now, technically we don’t _need_ a glyph for something as simple as scrying, but since the search is going to be more broad, this should help me identify his life force, if—or when—I find it.”

You honestly weren’t expecting him to be even remotely interested in the details, but he actually appears to be listening and nods along. “To cover a larger area, you won’t be able to feel everything as intensely, and the glyph compensates for that.”

The pleasant surprise puts a warm smile on your face before you realize it. “I’m impressed! You really _have_ done your research, haven’t you?”

Fett silently stares at you for a beat too long, and you would give anything to know what’s going through his head. He eventually speaks, voice level and professional. “I’d heard that the Force can be used for scrying, but I wanted to know exactly how it works before I went to the trouble of tracking you down.”

The man is sharp, you’ll give him that. After you finish the inner ring of runes, you move on to drawing the next set of interlocking circles and the appropriate sigils in them. This part you’re much more familiar with, so you don’t have to keep constantly looking at Fett. Keeping your eyes down, you eventually work up the nerve to ask the question that’s been burning at the back of your mind since he arrived: “How did you find me?”

From your peripheral, you see him tilt his helmet towards you. “Your tracks are plenty well covered, if that’s what you’re worried about. And none of the Empire’s posted bounties match your description.”

“That’s not an answer.” You look up to him with what you hope comes across as a scowl, but judging by the way he laughs softly to himself at seeing your expression, it must look more like a pout. “Come on, now. If you found me, anyone else could—”

“I’m the best bounty hunter in the world,” Fett says plainly, as if it were an obvious fact of nature. “Nobody’s going to find you in this forgettable village in the middle of nowhere. Don’t worry your little head about it.”

It’s tempting to lob the piece of chalk you’re holding directly at his stupid armor, but you have the sneaking suspicion that wouldn’t end well for you. You shake your head and finish the last sigil, muttering under your breath. “Big man strolls in and thinks he’s all that just because he’s larger than the only other person in the room—”

“ _What was that?_ ”

“Nothing, nothing.” You stand up, brushing some dust off of your tunic. “This should be good. Double check it for me while I get the rest of my things in order.” His irritation doesn’t stop him from doing as you say, strolling over to the glyph and flipping the book over to take a look as you pass him, heading back downstairs to the shop.

Thankfully, you’d been ahead in your work, so there’s not much that needs to be done in preparation for the worst case scenario. The next few days worth of prescriptions are already separated into the appropriate containers, all that’s left to do is clearly label them. It’s quickly done, and afterward you set them on a small table by the front door, all conveniently together for easy access.

After triple checking all of the orders, you head back upstairs to be met with Fett smearing one of the runes under his heel. “Hey!”

“This one was upside down,” he grumbles, snatching a spare piece of chalk off the ground that had rolled away from you earlier without your notice. You go to stand at his side and watch as he kneels down, copying from the diagram with slow and careful strokes, unfamiliar with the shape but precise with his attention he gives it.

“Oh, good catch. The inverted rune would have summoned a swarm of bees instead of scrying.” He turns to look at you, his helmet somehow even more deadpan than before, the silence absolutely _scathing_. “...That was a joke.”

“Jokes are supposed to be funny.”

You gasp dramatically, putting a hand to your chest. “Rude!” Fett tosses the chalk to you, and you barely catch it as he walks away to stand at the doorway again. “That’s why I had you check my work, though. Thanks.” 

He shrugs with the slightest movement of his shoulders, arms crossed again with one hand still holding the book open. “Anything else?”

“As far as the glyph goes, this is it.” You put your hand on your hips, glancing over the room for a moment before looking to Fett with a sheepish smile. “So, uh, I’m going to need you to watch over things while I’m doing this.”

It’s quiet, save for the book in Fett’s hand being clamped shut. “...’Watch over things’?”

You rock on your heels in an attempt to conceal your embarrassment. “I mean, if all goes well, I’ll be done in a few hours and you can be on your merry way. But, like I said, this might take...a couple of days. In which case, I can’t be left unattended, and my shop—”

“Absolutely not.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted my help!”

“I’m not a _babysitter_ ,” he seethes, slamming the book down on a nearby end table. You can’t help but flinch at the sound. “I’m not going to waste my time playing _shopkeep_ for you.”

Clenching your hands into fists, you stand your ground, folding your arms over your chest. “Alright, then I’m not doing it.” Fett practically growls, the sound sharpened by his helmet, but you grit your teeth and refuse to show your fear. “I’m not asking you to run the store. I just need you to hand people their medicine if they come asking for it, and to make sure my house doesn’t fucking burn down or anything while my unconscious body is in it!”

After what might be the most tense moment of silence yet (which is almost impressive, considering how uncomfortable some of the other silences have been), Fett stalks across the room over to you, stopping only after crowding your personal space. You would crane your neck to look up at him, but instead he leans down to speak lowly into your ear. “This better be worth it, or I may auction you off to the Empire. Or, better yet—I’m sure the Hutts would enjoy having a mage at their disposal. They like to keep cute things like you on leashes.”

His words have the desired effect of sending a chill down your spine. After swallowing hard, you turn slightly, trying to meet his eyes out of your peripheral without accidentally touching your face to his helm. “You think I’m cute?”

A firm hand grabs you by the back of your collar, and before you realize what’s happening you’re being shoved to the center of the glyph. There’s none of the earlier amusement in Fett’s voice. “Get going.”

“Alright, alright! No need to get pushy!” You take the remains of the captain's jacket and place it in one of the smaller circles of the glyph before taking a seat in the center. Fett watches you with intensity as you awkwardly try to get comfortable, crossing your legs and relaxing your spine. "The, uh—all of the orders are by the shop door, if anyone comes asking for them. You don’t have to handle any money, I’ve got everyone on tab." He grunts in annoyance, but nods nonetheless. "It shouldn’t come to this, but if I’m not done in three days, wake me up because something might be wrong. Oh, and you can sleep here, of course. Feel free to help yourself to anything to keep entertained and fed. Except for the dried venison, I've been saving that for—"

" _Now_ , mage."

You sigh before closing your eyes and taking a deep, calming breath. It’s been a long time since you’ve done this, but as you focus your mind, you feel that familiar, inexplicable pull of the Force, and you let yourself follow it into the ether until you can eventually no longer feel your body, your consciousness drifting into the abyss of nothing and everything.

Distantly, so very faintly, you hear the crashing of ocean waves.


	2. Indulgence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment of panic passes, though a whisper of concern lingers in its wake. Boba stands in front of you and looks you over one more time for any signs of injury or distress. Your brows are furrowed in focus, mouth drawn into a tight line, your breathing steady and controlled. He shakes his head. "It's one thing after another with you, isn’t it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sort of went wild with this one. Oops! A lot of inconsequential original characters, a few consequential original characters, exploration of the reader-insert's backstory, Boba struggling with the idea of emotional intimacy. All that jazz!
> 
> **Sensitive Content Warning:** There are a few mentions of deceased parents, regarding both the reader-insert and Boba. There's no explicit details about what happened in both cases, and I'm trying to stay away from writing tragedy porn as much as possible. Boba spends a paragraph or so reflecting on handling grief toward the end of the chapter.

Over the course of the next three days, Boba learns three key things about you.

The first is that you're well read.

There's a bookshelf sitting next to the desk in your living space, and while the collection of books is modest, the majority are academic to some degree. Several are botanical and medicinal guides, filled with loose papers you've shoved in between pages that contain notes to yourself or provide quick access to specific passages. Many of the others are historical, spanning several regions across the Empire and beyond, even a few that touch on the furthest reaches of the mainland.

One of the books is about Mandalore, but was written well before the Imperial siege. He idly wonders how much you know about the war or what remains of the Mandalorians, or how much you care, if at all.

On the bottom shelf is a plain wooden box next to a sparse selection of books on magic. Most are on magical theory and have very little to offer in application. The one you’d used last night appears to be far more worn than the others. The box piques his curiosity, but when he slides it out to get a better look, the writing on the lid stops him.

_Mom’s Stuff._

Boba stares at the box for a long moment. It's small, could only hold a few trinkets and letters at best, and it isn’t covered in dust like some of the books are, likely having been opened recently.

He puts the box back.

The second is that you're not actually running a business.

It's the late afternoon of the first day, a few shades of orange only beginning to bleed into the sky, when someone knocks on the shop door. 

Boba had been reading the book on Mandalore for the better part of the day, lounging on a cushion across the room from your meditating form. At the sound, he slips his helmet back on with an annoyed groan. He has to remind himself that this is going to be a brief, simple exchange, and then he can go back to ignoring everything about this inane little town until it's time to go. As he descends the staircase, painfully aware of how the old wood creaks in protest under the weight of his armor, there's another series of knocks, this one sounding more urgent than the last.

Unfazed by the other party’s impatience, Boba strides leisurely across the shop and swings the door open, just enough to show off the bulk of his frame without allowing a peek into the store. Two young women stand on the other side, one of them looking nervous and worried, the other more tense and irritated, both freezing in shock when they see who is standing before them.

Boba recognizes them far faster than they manage to compose themselves. “The tavern sisters,” he says, something of a greeting but more of a confirmation to himself. The older of the two purses her lips, surprise fading and apparent anger returning. She’d been the one trying to keep him distracted with mead yesterday while the smaller girl ran off to presumably warn you of his arrival.

(Yet you’d still chosen to stay and confront him. He wonders what she told you, if you were trying to shield the rest of the town from potential danger or if you were simply that foolhardy. If you see him for the threat he is, even now.)

The elder sister opens her mouth, barbed words on the tip of her tongue, but the younger wisely grabs her sister’s arm and speaks first. “Pardon our intrusion, sir, but we were hoping to speak with the apothecary.”

“They’re busy,” he bluntly replies, not interested in dragging this conversation out any longer than necessary. “Names?”

The younger is about to respond when the elder yanks her arm out of her sister’s grasp and points an accusing finger at him. “Who are you? What are you doing here? What have you done with the apothecary?”

Her sister hisses a curse in disbelief, shooting an exasperated look at her elder sibling before turning back to the intimidating suit of armor staring down at them. Sweat starts to bead on her temples when her eyes flick to the scabbard at his hip. “P-Please, forgive Nelna. It’s only...we had told the apothecary we were going to meet them today, and—oh!”

Boba shoves the order into the younger’s hands. Two bundles of some sort of herbs, wrapped in butcher paper, bound individually and then to each other by twine, two handwritten tags hanging from the knot labelled _Nelna_ and _Giselda_. The sisters look at the package, then at each other, then to Boba. 

He crosses his arms, continuing to fill the doorway with his imposing frame. “The apothecary is unwell and asked me to assist them.” Neither of the sisters seem to quite believe that, but are also at a loss as far as how to challenge him on it. When the silence drags on for a moment too long, Boba tips his chin down by a fraction, intensifying the blank stare of the helmet. “Anything else?”

“No sir,” says the one that must be Giselda, hastily, before Nelna can say anything else brash to the dangerous man. “Best wishes to the apothecary, and may the Force be with them.” She gives half a bow before grabbing Nelna’s arm and making a quick escape, Nelna’s objections fading away into the distance.

Boba watches them go, then takes a long, panning look up and down the street. The shop is far from the main market, apparently a residential home with the bottom floor converted to a store space as an afterthought. The cobblestone road is empty, though he can see people milling about where it connects to one of the bigger streets, and at that intersection, he makes eye contact with one of the town guards that is currently being talked to by a concerned resident.

He takes a moment to stare the guard down while considering this development, before finally stepping back into the shop and closing the door.

Something has been bothering Boba since last night, and since he’s alone in the shop now, he might as well follow up on it.

Boba goes to the main counter and stands behind it, right where you’d been standing when speaking to him yesterday. There's a small drawer on this side, filled with handbound journals and loose papers. Shuffling the papers around reveals them to be orders for residents, but aside from quantities, there are no numbers attached to any of them. He flips briefly through the journals and finds your meticulous notes on various ingredients, some referenced from literature on your bookshelf upstairs, others from trial and error. His brows pinch together as he goes through all the documents he can find, yet nothing remotely resembling a ledger turns up.

The counter along the back wall has many drawers and cabinet doors, but mostly contains various plants and mushrooms and powders and—whatever else. Something in one of the drawers leaves a sticky residue on his gloves, and he immediately loses interest in exploring the rest.

Boba continues to dig through the shop, not too concerned with you finding out he’d been snooping and more with not leaving a mess to clean up later. The only clue he manages to find is a small coin box, buried underneath a stack of papers on a table hidden in the corner, as though it had been forgotten. There’s a keyhole on the lid, but despite that, it isn’t actually locked, and when he pops it open there’s only a meager handful of coins inside.

There’s definitely no vault here in the shop, he would have found it by now. There’s certainly not one upstairs, he wouldn’t have missed that.

Setting his helmet down, Boba frowns and runs a hand through his hair, mind wandering as he leans against the front counter. How the hell were you sustaining this place if you weren’t making any money? How did you feed yourself? You didn’t appear to be struggling, but as far as he can tell, you’re running a fucking _charity_ and not making anything in return. And if you don’t care about money, then why the hell haggle with him for a cut of the reward?

(A fleeting thought suggests you might be funding yourself through less savory means, but there’s no way. Boba has met more than his fair share of lowlifes—you carry yourself with far too much dignity to work with gutter trash, and high crime doesn’t happen in a town like this in the middle of _nowhere._ )

An answer of sorts comes later that evening.

The setting sun is halfway below the horizon when there’s another knock at the door. Boba had stayed downstairs, flipping through your journals of observations—though the practical uses of some seem pretty dubious—so he glances up as soon as he hears it. He puts the helmet back on, readjusts himself to look properly menacing, and opens the door before they can knock a second time.

A feeble little elderly man that Boba doesn’t recognize stands patiently waiting on the other side. He’s holding a basket of fresh produce and bread from the market, and when he sees Boba, he gasps and grins from ear to ear. “Well! I didn’t realize a knight had finally come to sweep our little herbalist off their feet!”

Boba stares at him for a long, long moment in heavy silence, before finally deciding he’s not going to acknowledge that statement or dignify it with a response. “Name?”

“Ah, it’s Fentel. They might have written ‘old geezer’ or ‘pile of ashes’ on the tag.” Fentel chuckles to himself as Boba checks through the bundles. When he finds it, the tag on it is, in fact, labelled _Old Man Fentel_. "How are they doing? Can't remember the last time they took some time to relax. Are they on vacation?"

Maker, this man doesn't stop. Boba doesn't even pretend to be humoring this conversation, simply holding out the bundle of herbs expectantly in silence.

"Perfect! Thank you so kindly." Fentel takes the bundle and hands Boba the basket in return. “If I’d known they were having company, I would have brought more! Sorry, son. Maybe if you’re still around the next time my missus is making stew, you can both come over and try some.”

Boba looks at the basket, then back to Fentel. “... _Sure_. We’ll see if I am.” There's roughly a thousand things he'd rather do than voluntarily come back here, so the chances are slim.

With a big smile, Fentel claps Boba on the arm as if he doesn't even notice the beskar plating. “That’s the spirit! Give the dear my regards, won’t you? And remind them to eat all of their vegetables! Honestly, what would their mother think if she saw her grown child refusing to eat their brussels sprouts…” The old man is still talking as Boba closes the door on him.

That solves the mystery of how you feed yourself, along with an added bonus of saving Boba an awkward trip to the market later. He sifts through the basket as he walks up the stairs, ignoring the _creak_ that comes with every step to focus on taking stock of what the old man provided. Mostly vegetables, but also some eggs, some bread, what looks to be a decent amount of pork from the butcher—

Boba stops dead in his tracks when he spots you from the stairway, nearly dropping the entire basket in surprise. You’re still scrying, stuck in whatever that trance-like state you’ve been in is called, the only difference now being the meter or so of distance between you and the ground.

Floating. You’re fucking _floating_. Are you supposed to be floating?

Setting the basket on the nearest flat surface, Boba hurries around to check on you and the glyph. As far as he can tell, everything else is exactly the same. It takes him a moment to remember where he put the book you’d used last night, and he goes to snatch it off the table as soon as he does, checking the pages before and after the glyph for any relevant information. He’s met with dense magic jargon, none of which mentions floating, or hovering, or levitating, or whatever else they might call it.

The moment of panic passes, though a whisper of concern lingers in its wake. Boba stands in front of you and looks you over one more time for any signs of injury or distress. Your brows are furrowed in focus, mouth drawn into a tight line, your breathing steady and controlled. He shakes his head. "It's one thing after another with you, isn’t it?" 

You don't respond. Boba walks away to fix himself a meal.

The third is that you’re a refugee.

Things are fairly quiet for those first two days. Aside from handing out packages to the timid townspeople that occasionally come knocking, Boba is free to do as he pleases.

(Mostly. He’d planned to go hunting in the nearby forest to keep from going completely stir crazy, but thought better of it when he considered how alarmed any townspeople might be if they happened to see him with a drawn weapon.)

There are other things to occupy his time, at least. Things he normally doesn’t have the time or opportunity to do. He reads through several of the books on your shelves, prepares food in your well-kept little kitchen, polishes every piece of his armor and all of his weapons, digs through your shop until he finds some oil he can use for the crank of his crossbow—all in all, not the complete waste of time he suspected this would be.

If he’s completely honest, it’s almost...relaxing. This town is far removed from the Empire, out of the way of any major trade routes, and so small it took him some time to find a map that bothered including it. Everything about it is almost disgustingly domestic, a humble sort of charming like it was plucked straight from the halcyon days of before the Empire. The threats he normally faces on a daily basis are absent here, and for once, he doesn’t feel the need to constantly look over his shoulder.

He’s the most dangerous thing here by a long shot. The only other threat is currently floating in the living room.

At some point on the second day, things started floating around you, but even then, the few baubles lazily orbiting you seemed harmless. While eating breakfast on the third morning, Boba experimentally tossed an apple into your vicinity, vaguely pleased when it caught in the field of your magic and started drifting alongside everything else. Part of him wants to find out what the limits are to what you can move, but the rest of him acknowledges that as a _terrible_ idea. He has no idea if you’re actually in control of your magic right now.

Which leads to the rapidly approaching problem: it’s been nearly three full days, and you’re still not back.

Boba had assumed the 3 day warning was just a precautionary measure. You’d seemed confident it wouldn’t take this long—perhaps you were merely trying to placate him, given how angry he’d been about having to stay here. Did you know from the beginning it would take this long?

Or is something going very, very wrong right now?

A knocking at the door drags Boba's attention back to the present. Something about it is different, more authoritative than the nervous customers who came and went. Boba puts his helmet on, then grabs his sword and crossbow for good measure, moving as silently as possible down the stairs, keeping his weight off the centers of the steps to avoid the creaking wood. There's a second round of rapt knocking, but Boba takes the time to look out of the little peephole in the door he hadn't bothered with prior.

Guards. The local militia, two of them, one tall and lanky and the other more broadly built, both with their helmets on, visors down, dressed in light chainmail and armed with swords that Boba is willing to bet haven't seen much use.

He has to remind himself that this _isn’t_ his usual work, has to take a deep breath and will himself to ignore the itch to fight currently burning in his blood. When he opens the door, it takes conscious effort to not put his hand on the hilt of his blade. “Need something?”

The guard who'd been knocking, the taller of the two, very deliberately looks Boba up and down. Sizes him up, right in front of his face. “Strange choice to be fully armed in an herb shop, isn’t it?” Her voice is smooth, but she’s faking her bravado. The confidence is forced and falls short of making up for the way her hands shake, anxiety clear in her stance. He thinks he remembers seeing her a few days ago, but it’s hard to tell the guards apart, and he honestly doesn’t care.

Boba crosses his arms and leans a shoulder against the door frame with a lazy sort of confidence. “Strange choice to have an armed militia in a town where nothing happens. Couldn’t cut it as a farmhand?”

She’s indignant immediately, the line of her shoulders pulling taught as her shoulders rise and her body tenses, but the other guard merely laughs, the sound deep and bellowing and filled with mirth. “Oh, he’s _definitely_ a friend of theirs.”

The second guard clearly isn’t taking this very seriously, but the first guard ignores his comment entirely, keeping focused on Boba. “Nobody in town has seen the apothecary for days. Nobody seems to know who _you_ are, either.”

“Nobody’s asked,” Boba says, feigning innocence with a tilt of his helmet. “The apothecary is unwell and asked me to hand out medication, which is what I’ve done. There’s nothing left of what they had prepared, so if you need something, you’ll have to wait.”

Before the first guard can continue questioning Boba, the second guard chimes in, still sounding perfectly cheery despite the brewing tension. “So, what _is_ your name then, sir?”

“Boba Fett.” He doesn’t see a reason to lie, and it’s easier if he doesn’t.

Rather, he thought it would be, but the portly guard pops his visor up in disbelief. “Wait—as in, _the_ Boba Fett? The bounty hunter?” Boba’s genuinely surprised at the recognition, and while the first guard seems to be alarmed by this information, the second guard’s voice goes up in pitch with excitement as he continues. “I have a mate out in Tatooine, he’s talked about you! You kicked his arse quite badly. This was back in his wild days, mind you. Thought he could make it as a bounty hunter himself, but found out right quick he’s not cut out for that sort of business. I reckon you helped him realize that, so thanks, I suppose! Poor sod was hoping to get in good with the Hutts—”

“Marlan, for Maker’s sake, will you shut up for a second?” Marlan sheepishly looks away as the first guard raises her visor as well, pinching the bridge of her nose. She’s clearly not used to having it down for long stretches, the sweat on her skin giving away that she’s overheating under the helmet. “ _Sir Fett,_ was it? Mind explaining _why_ you’re here? I find it difficult to believe the apothecary hired an... _esteemed_ bounty hunter from out of town to watch their shop.”

Boba shrugs and decides to take a cue from Marlan. “We’re friends. I came to visit just as they happened to fall ill.”

“See, Vayle? I told you they were—“

“Friends from _where_ , exactly?” The woman who is apparently known as Vayle takes a step closer, hand falling to her sword’s hilt. “The apothecary was alone when they came to us. Said they didn’t have _anywhere_ to go or _anyone_ to turn to when they were groveling for help. If that’s the case, where were you?”

Alone.

You were already alone when you got here.

The pieces of the puzzle click together, and the familiar ache of grief abruptly blooms in Boba’s chest. He shouldn’t feel so sympathetic—the Empire has made plenty of orphans, the two of you are not the only ones who have suffered tremendous loss—but he can tell you’re different from the usual ilk. The broken people Boba works for and with are simple, interested only in greed or revenge or a catastrophic blend of both. _You_ haven’t blindly given yourself over to anger, nor are you trying to drown your sorrow in vices.

No, you’re more like _him_ , just trying to find your way forward.

There are so many questions he has about you, things he wants to understand, learn more about. You are an arrangement of complex parts, kind and fierce in equal measure, a trove of secrets kept hidden behind sharp wit and sharper words.

The realization that he _wants to know you_ makes Boba suddenly uneasy, and he has to firmly lock that train of thought away for the time being in order to focus on the matter at hand.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Boba says with a casual air, even as his own hand goes to his blade. The fire within that he’d been trying to suppress is quickly growing into a raging inferno. “If you’re looking for an excuse to fight, don’t waste my time dancing around it.”

“You’re the one avoiding questions and refusing to cooperate!”

Marlan looks nervously back and forth between the two. “Um, Vayle, not to be rude, but I don’t think you can—“

“No,” Boba sharply interjects, the single word an order weighted by Boba's self-assurance. “If she wants to fight, let her. She’s a big girl and can make decisions for herself.”

Vayle is absolutely _fuming_ by the time she draws her sword. “Don’t you dare talk down to me!”

Boba steps out of the shop and closes the door behind him. “Take this to the street if you're going to do this. I’m sure the apothecary wouldn’t appreciate any damages to their home.”

The two walk to the center of the road several paces apart from each other, Marlan trailing behind Vayle and attempting to talk her down with little success. Some of the nearby residents had already been watching the heated confrontation, but now there’s a modest group of people gathering, eager to spectate whatever is coming next.

Boba suspects you aren’t going to be terribly pleased when you hear about this, but he’s been restless, and the guards were quickly getting on his nerves, and Vayle was clearly trying to provoke him regardless. As far as he’s concerned, this is a perfectly reasonable and justified way to burn off some stress.

After finally shooing Marlan away, Vayle turns to face Boba, shaking out her limbs before taking a dueling stance. It’s mostly correct, if somewhat stiff. Her experience is likely built on sparring with other guards, not through real scraps or against anyone that wasn't being held to her level.

She's never fought someone that was looking to kill.

Boba takes a long moment to loosen up, making a deliberate show of cracking his neck and rolling his shoulders. There are murmurs from the crowd, but Boba doesn’t acknowledge them, instead keeping his attention fixed solely on Vayle. He draws his sword but keeps his stance deceptively relaxed, casually beckoning with his hand for her to begin.

Predictably, she comes running at him, raising her sword overhead to strike—Boba easily parries, then closes the gap between them with one step and lands a solid jab to her solar plexus. She lets out a choked sound, stunned, and before she can recover, Boba strikes her helmet with the hilt of his blade, the vibration from impact causing the metal to reverberate and produce a distinct _clong_ as Vayle falls to the ground.

Boba looks down as he sheathes his blade, the distinct T of his helmet boring into her. “I don’t know what you think you’re protecting the town from, but nobody looking to cause trouble is going to fight like the honorable knights you’ve been imagining.” Vayle struggles to get up, likely suffering from ringing in her ears. “You’d be better off learning to brawl in a tavern.”

The crowd’s reaction is mixed, though loud on both sides; some see this as confirmation that this stranger is a dangerous man to have around, while others seem to be grateful for the excitement, a few even whispering about wanting to try standing their own against Boba. 

He’s not interested in any of it. Especially not when he hears his name being called from the shop door.

There you are, arms crossed and leaning in the doorway just as he had not even 10 minutes ago. There are bags under your eyes and your entire body seems heavy with exhaustion, but you have a small smile and a twinkle of amusement in your gaze as you watch him.

Without another word, Boba strolls away from the townspeople, his long and confident gait carrying him quickly over to you. His eyes briefly sweep over you to check how you’re holding up. “You look like shit,” is the closest he gets to saying he’s glad to see you.

You manage a laugh, though your voice is a touch raspy, throat dry from the days without water. “It doesn’t feel much better than it looks.”

Boba puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you around to usher you back inside. “I drew a bucket from the well last night. Sit down and drink some water.”

(Neither of you notice how everyone watches with clear interest as you both disappear together, nor the gossip that begins flying the moment the door closes behind you.)

“Had to make sure you didn’t slaughter half the town first,” you say through a yawn, letting him guide you up the stairs. He doesn't even think about the creaking steps, focused instead on making sure you don't fall over. “I’m sure Vayle deserved that, though. She’s never trusted me, so she was probably extra suspicious of you.”

“Stop talking. You’re irritating your throat,” Boba says, his tone firm but not harsh. “And she was the one who came here looking for a fight, so yes, she deserved it.” You hum in agreement, allowing yourself to be directed by Boba as he tells you to sit down and wait for him to return. He’s back nary a moment later with food and water in hand, yet you’re already starting to doze off. “At least put _something_ in your stomach first if you’re going to pass out.”

All you manage is to mumble a soft protest, head starting to fall forward. With a mildly exaggerated sigh, Boba sets everything on the nearby end table and steps in front of you, crowding your personal space. You blink sleepily up at him, less startled and more _confused_ when he cradles the back of your head with one hand. It feels far too intimate until you realize he’s holding your head upright, bringing the cup to your lips and forcing you to swallow a trickle of water. Once it hits your dry throat and empty stomach, you’re suddenly acutely aware of how parched you are. You try to tip the cup back further, but Boba’s grip is firm, and he forces you to drink at a steady pace rather than chugging it down.

“Fuck,” you wheeze once the cup is empty and Boba’s released you, finally starting to register the gnawing pit in your stomach. “How long was I out for?”

“You couldn’t tell?” You shake your head, watching with a dazed expression as Boba tears off a piece of dried venison for you. It’s so, _so_ tempting to try to snatch the whole thing from him and scarf it down as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Boba is correct that you should be pacing yourself, and also could probably break your hand if you tried it. Boba gives you the small strip of meat and waits until you’re eating to speak. “Today’s the third day.” You furrow your brows, giving him a quizzical look while the jerky hangs out of your mouth. He snorts at your expression. “Very dignified, little mage.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts as you chomp down the rest of the venison. “I didn’t think it would actually take that long. Sorry to burden you with that.”

“It’s fine.” Boba’s anger over the situation has long since fizzled out. “You should be apologizing to your town, since they’ve been scared witless this entire time.”

"You could try not being so terrifying, you know." There was some scathing insult you had lined up, but it's lost to a big yawn that makes your eyes water. "Fuck. I need to...do you have a map? I can mark where the guy is and you can go. I don’t want to hold you here—"

“Show me after you get some sleep.” You blink at him, eyebrows shooting up. Boba keeps his eyes on you, thankful that his expression is unreadable behind the beskar. “I’m not taking your word while you’re half starved and delirious with exhaustion. Another day or two won’t kill me.”

If you weren’t so tired, you might have been skeptical about Boba’s apparent change of attitude, but instead, you let out an airy laugh. “Whatever you say, Fett.” After making grabby hands at him, he hands the rest of the dried venison over, watching you closely as you tear off small pieces to pace yourself. “Fight anyone else while I was out?”

Boba relays the very few events of the incredibly mundane days he’s had in your absence, mostly about the townsfolk he learns you have varying degrees of fondness for. He doesn’t talk for long—the moment you’re done eating, you start to doze again, and this time, he lets you. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Boba moves you to your bed, draping a blanket over you as you snuggle up to your pillow.

He only thinks about the soft warmth you fill him with after he’s excused himself from your bedspace. The word _domestic_ comes to mind again, and he internally screams, frustrated by this development that’s already starting to compromise his behavior.

Something in him that isn’t _Boba Fett, the renowned bounty hunter_ , but simply _Boba Fett, the man_ , eagerly soaks up that warmth, having been shut out from and deprived of meaningful connections for so long. It’s dangerous to get attached, he knows that, knows it like he knows the blood in his veins and air in his lungs.

But—maybe he can allow himself this little indulgence, just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an overarching plot in mind and shit but if y'all want to see anything in particular, let me know?? There will be sex in this eventually I swear. I'm sorry if Boba is too soft but my heart demands to write _yearning_


	3. Change of Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A lot of these islands flood during storms or long stretches of rain,” Fett says, scanning up and down the map for any islands that stand out. “That’s why they’re still unexplored. People go out there while it’s dry, then get stuck when it floods. Bloated corpses constantly wash up along the coastline.”
> 
> You make a retching sound. “Can you _not_ say that sort of thing while I’m trying to eat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on updating this so quickly but WOW there was way more interest in this than I thought there would be? I'm having a blast writing it as well so I hope y'all enjoy! (Sorry I didn't respond to every comment but I read and cherish each and every one of them, thank you all so much!)

A gentle caress stirs you from your sleep, a warm hand brushing the hair out of your face and making a mild effort to smooth out your wicked case of bedhead. You make a soft sound in your throat, eyes still closed and exhaustion threatening to pull you back under, and the hand immediately retreats. There’s nothing after that, and you’re almost positive it was just your imagination, the phantom touch of a lingering dream. You’re just about to doze off again when a voice grabs your attention.

“Up. You’ve slept quite enough already.”

When you crack your eyes open, you immediately shield them from the light filtering in through the dust caked window by your bed. The sun looks to be at its apex for the day, which isn’t that much later than when you’d fallen asleep. You frown as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “It’s only noon, isn’t it?”

“It’s been a day.” That gives you pause, and you finally look to the doorway, Fett’s armored figure standing there just as you expected. Rather than his usual cocky bravado, he’s very stiff, perhaps even a little uncomfortable, and though he appears to be making a solid effort, he can’t quite keep irritation from bleeding into his words. “Also, you have a guest that refuses to leave.”

He walks out before you can ask for any further clarification. _Dramatic asshole_. 

You take a few moments to change—nothing fancy, just something that feels fresher than the clothes you’ve spent the past several days in—and step out, ready to head downstairs only to stop when you find your guests in your living room.

Most of the furniture is still pushed aside, but Fett appears to have moved your little dining table back into the middle, on top of the glyph with no regards to the runes underneath. Fett himself has taken to leaning against the far wall, intently focused on staring out the window rather than making eye contact with anyone in the room, while your new guest is seated at the table, cheerily munching away at a fresh pastry despite the tense atmosphere Fett is creating.

Chuckling to yourself and shaking your head, you take a seat at the table. “Nice to see you, gramps.”

Old Man Fentel gives you a bright smile. “The pleasure’s all mine, dear! It’s good to see you up and about.” His words are light, but the overwhelming sense of relief is clear in his eyes. “Why, when the missus told me who was at your shop, I nearly keeled over!”

“The big and scary Mandalorian is a friend, don’t worry.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Fett’s attention immediately snap to you, lightning quick, and you glance at him with a sheepish smile. “Er—acquaintance? Customer?” That seems to make Fett even _more_ tense, and rather than shoving your foot further into your mouth, entirely at a loss as to what Fett wants from you at this point, you turn your attention back to Fentel. “He was actually here for some...Force...stuff.”

“Yes, I gathered as much.” Fentel gestures to the glyph below you both for emphasis. “When he didn’t try to take you the first day, I suspected he had some business with you.”

Fett finally speaks, cutting into the conversation. “Is this whole town aware that you’re a mage?”

“No, just Fentel, his wife, and Captain Lanara.” You blink as a realization sets in. “Oh—Fett, this is Mayor Glin.”

“We’ve already met, dear. And please, Fentel is fine. I only have the title because nobody else wanted to deal with the paperwork.” Fentel laughs heartily at his own joke, while you roll your eyes fondly, having heard it roughly a thousand times by now.

Fett appears to still be mulling something over. “Nobody else knows?”

“Well…” You run your hand through your hair, mentally taking note that it’s still a mess. “People know I ran from the Empire. They’ve all drawn their own conclusions as to why, some of them may have pieced it together. I’m pretty sure Vayle thinks I’m some kind of war criminal.”

Fentel scoffs. “Vayle would put misbehaving _children_ in prison if she could. You pay her no mind, and let me know if she’s giving you any trouble.” He glances to Fett, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Though, I suppose your Mandalorian friend could set her straight again.”

“I’m not here to discipline your militia,” Fett replies dryly. “If we could get on with business?”

“Of course, of course!” Fentel scoots his chair back, looking down at the glyph. “So, what was the big order? This looks quite fancy.”

You start giving Fentel a quick rundown of what Fett needed and why you were absent for three days. The old man has never had a particularly strong grasp on how magic works, but he always asks you to explain when you end up using it, and you can tell his enthusiasm to hear you talk about magic is genuine.

Halfway through your recap, a big plate of fresh food is placed on the table in front of you, and you blink up at Fett, who simply gestures for you to keep going. Your stomach growls from the smell alone, and you figure it must have been grumbling this whole time without your notice. Fentel has a coy grin from watching the exchange, and your cheeks burn in embarrassment as you continue talking between bites.

“Well? Did you find him?”

“Sure did.” As if on cue, you lift your plate so Fett can roll out a big map across the table. It spans the main continent and some of the major islands on the outskirts, with mentions on the edges of where neighboring continents are.

Not that the other continents matter much—very few have succeeded in sailing out that far and making it back alive. Even if the quarry were out there, no amount of money was worth a sure death.

“Alright, so, the good news is that he’s alive, and the even better news is that he’s not too far.” Without looking at Fett, you hold out your plate to him, and he wordlessly takes it from you so that you can free your hands. “The bad news is, I couldn’t pinpoint an _exact_ location, because he’s in...well.”

Off the Western coast sits a massive archipelago, its land mostly unexplored despite the Empire’s rapid expansion. Everyone knows about the islands, they’ve been charted there for decades—what’s _on_ the islands is where the mystery lies. The sheer number of islands doesn’t make it any easier; they’re like freckles dotting the ocean’s skin, or like stars scattered across the night sky. The moment you gesture to the archipelago, Fett gives a displeased _hrmph_.

Fentel strokes the thin white wisps on his chin that barely constitute a beard, humming in thought as he follows along. “The coast isn’t too far from here. A few days’ ride, if you skip the roads and head through the forest, following the river.”

“And then what?” You ask, taking your plate back from Fett so he can rest his palms on the table and lean over the map. “Comb each and every island on the archipelago, hope he doesn’t see you coming?”

“A lot of these islands flood during storms or long stretches of rain,” Fett says, scanning up and down the map for any islands that stand out. “That’s why they’re still unexplored. People go out there while it’s dry, then get stuck when it floods. Bloated corpses constantly wash up along the coastline.”

You make a retching sound. “Can you _not_ say that sort of thing while I’m trying to eat?”

“Death waits for no one,” Fett replies, the grin clear in his voice. “Do you need to sit downstairs while I talk?”

“No, but if you add any more corpse details to your stupid dramatic monologue, I’m going to throw up on you.” He shakes his head as you pointedly start tearing into a poppyseed muffin.

Fentel looks far too pleased watching the two of you, and it’s only when Fett catches him staring and somehow manages to glare through the helmet that Fentel clears his throat. “It’s only another month or so before we start getting our annual downpours. If you wait, you can look for your pirate after the islands have already started flooding. He won’t have as many places to hide.”

“He may be gone by then.”

“I don’t think he will be,” you say around a mouthful of muffin. “He looked like he had a—house? Cottage? Some place that looked permanent, and he had a little boat…” You close your eyes, willing the memory to come back to you. “A small boat meant for short distances, not long ocean travel. He probably island hops so people don’t notice him.” Fett seems to consider that, silently running it over as he continues to loom over the map.

With a sigh, Fentel leans back in his chair. “Regardless, it’d do you no good to head out now. You’d be wasting your time and risk getting caught in a bad spot when the storms come.” All three of you take a moment to think about the next move, processing all of the information laid out. It’s Fentel that ends up with an idea first, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “How about this—the Mandalorian stays here until the season’s end, and when it’s time, we can do another scrying to see if your pirate friend stayed put?”

Both you _and_ Fett immediately object to the idea, accidentally beginning to talk over each other before pausing and exchanging a look. Fett takes the lead, turning back to Fentel. “I’m not just going to sit on my hands for a month, wasting my time.”

“Then I’ll give you work!” Fentel nods to himself, already envisioning how this is going to play out despite Fett’s clear hesitation. “Might not be as exciting as bounty hunting, but there’s plenty that you could do for us, and it’s not like we’ve been using the town funds for much else. We could give you free lodging, too. I’m sure Nelna and her sister—”

“Would both have a heart attack if you made them host Fett for any longer than a day,” you interrupt in a completely deadpan tone. However, when you turn to address Fett, you find he’s looking intently at you, and it takes you a moment to swallow your nerves. “Listen, I know you’re itching to get out of town, but if you’re willing to stick around for a bit, I could set up a proper bed for you in the living room and you could continue staying here.”

Fett seems genuinely surprised, studying you carefully before curiously tilting his helmet. “I thought a minute ago you didn’t want me here.”

“What? No.” You shake your head, trying not to look as flustered as you feel from the intensity of Fett’s gaze. “I thought _you_ didn’t want to be here. You were quite angry about having to stay, last I remember. Right before the scrying?” Something about being sold to the Hutts as a cute pet? Did that actually happen, or did you imagine that?

Judging by the way Fett averts his gaze in embarrassment, that definitely happened. “...I was less than pleased, but I’ve lingered in worse places.”

“And I’ve had worse company.” You shrug. “Besides, it’s my fault you’re here, I might as well take responsibility for you.”

Fett stills at that, and you’re not sure if you should backtrack or not. Was that...rude? You don’t want him to feel like he’s a burden, that wasn’t your intention at all. Maker, you wish the man would take off the helmet for even a moment so you could make sense of where you stand with him.

Just as you start to open your mouth, Fett speaks, his voice firm and assured. “I’ll stay as long as there’s work worth my time.”

Fentel chuckles, nodding in agreement. “Yes, I figured you wouldn’t stick around for anything mundane. Don’t you worry, we’ll put your skills to good use.” He pushes his chair back and stands, reaching for a cane propped up against the table that you hadn’t noticed until now. “I’ll go inform the Captain you’ll be staying. Hopefully, that should keep you from being bothered by the guards any further.”

“Did something happen to your leg, gramps?” You furrow your brows, trying to remember if you’ve ever seen him walking with a cane before. “How long have you had that?”

“He’s fine.” Fett walks around the table to stand at your side and get a proper look at Fentel, ignoring the confused look you’re giving him. “He didn’t have it a few days ago when he came to pick up his order, when he didn’t know I was here. It’s a sword he was planning to kill me with if it turned out I’d brought you harm.”

You’re about to laugh at that _obviously_ bullshit story, except Fentel laughs first and pulls the handle of the cane, revealing the sharp steel hidden within. “You Mandalorians really do know your stuff!”

“Do you think you could take me?” Fett’s smug attitude is back in full force while you’re stuck with your mouth open, speechless.

“I don’t know,” Fentel answers honestly with a flippant shrug and a big smile. “But I was willing to find out!”

  
  


Boba knows this is a bad idea.

He doesn’t stay in one place for long periods of time, doesn’t stick around the same people for longer than necessary. He has to stay sharp. On his toes. Alert, always ready for whatever danger is lurking around the corner.

And yet, there’s something so _stupidly_ charming about ordinary things like walking through the market with you, he really can’t help himself.

While the guards have begrudgingly accepted his presence, and there are some excited whispers from the people passing by around him, for the most part, everyone here is quaking in their boots when he approaches. Boba probably doesn’t need the ego boost, but he won’t deny it’s nice to be recognized for the force that he is.

You’re the antithesis of their fear. The merchants don’t dare make eye contact, yet you casually ask him what kinds of foods he likes and hand him things to carry. (He reminds you, repeatedly, that he’s not a pack mule, yet still ends up holding the big basket of produce while you chat with a baker.) It’s almost funny to have the stoic, armored figure doing something so mundane, and yet...it feels like he’s pretending to be a different person. For once, he doesn’t have to put up the bold front to keep others from testing him. He’s free to exist as a normal man doing normal things, with other normal people.

“Hey, Fett, do you want to swing by the blacksmith tomorrow?” Well. He’s not sure you qualify as _normal_ , but that’s one of the reasons you’re quickly growing on him.

“Do you think I spend all my free time looking at weapons and armor?” Boba’s trying to sound indignant, but he can’t help the amusement in his voice as he looks down at you. “Besides, nothing is stronger than beskar.”

You roll your eyes as you rummage through your satchel, looking for some coins to pay the baker. “How should I know what you do for fun? I’m trying my best, here.”

“You could ask.” He forces you to take the basket so he can reach into the pouch on his hip, tossing a handful of coins onto the counter and not paying attention to the way the baker’s eyes bulge at the amount. “Maybe I like to take long walks on the beach at sunset.”

He turns and starts walking back to the shop, you quickly following in tow with a raised brow. “...Do you?”

“No.” The flat response makes you let out an ugly snort of laughter, and Boba feels the familiar warmth in his chest that he has to fight to ignore, keeping his head facing forward rather than turning to watch you smile. He pivots the conversation before he ends up having to reveal anything about himself. “I’m surprised your town accepts coin.”

If you notice the abrupt shift in topic, you don’t mention it. “We mostly barter, but the next nearest town is on a trade route that passes through the Empire, so we’ve ended up using Imperial currency to try to stay connected.”

This time, he does turn his head to you, ever so slightly. “Barter, huh? Is that why you don’t charge your customers?”

You pause in your steps and he does as well, patiently waiting for your response. “That’s…” You sigh, holding the basket closer to yourself as you start walking again, Boba matching your smaller stride to keep pace. “Sort of. This is a very insular town, there’s not a lot of money that comes flowing in. Some of these people have almost nothing to trade, but that doesn’t mean they need the medicine any less. So I give out whatever I can to look after everybody, and a lot of them look after me in return.”

Boba knows you won’t say it, but he’s willing to bet that you feel indebted to the town as a whole for taking you in. The fine line between gratitude and obligation is blurred with time, and you seem to take it as a duty of sorts to continue running the shop. He wants to ask you more, but he can sense that you’re withdrawing in on yourself a bit from the topic, so he drops it and lets a comfortable silence fill the space between the two of you for the rest of the walk back.

When you return to the storefront, you start to awkwardly balance the basket on your hip so that you can reach for the shop key, but Boba is unlocking the door and opening it for you before you can. You narrow your eyes at him. “How did you—that first night, too, how did you get in?”

Boba holds up what you recognize as your spare key, spinning it by the ring it’s attached to around his finger. “Inside the planter by the front door. It was the first place I checked.”

Your gaze flicks from his helmet to the key, then back to his helmet, searching for his eyes through the visor as you frown. “Seriously? You couldn’t have just waited outside for me to show up?”

“Wouldn’t have made as strong an impression.” He gestures to the open door again and you give a dramatic sigh, stepping inside and waiting for him to close the door behind you. 

Boba lingers at the front door for a moment after he locks up, and you look at him curiously, setting the basket on the front counter. “Something wrong?”

His shoulders are tense, entire body rigid when he finally turns to you. “...I wouldn’t have sold you to the Hutts or the Empire. Just so you know.” 

Boba can’t bring himself to say it outright, but it’s an apology. Making the threat was much easier when he didn’t care about who you were. Now he’s aware how deep of a cut it may have been for you, and he can’t stand the idea of you thinking he’s a dangerous monster that might betray your trust, especially if you’re going to be sharing your abode with him for the next month.

You seem surprised that he’s bothering to bring it up at all, but that surprise quickly melts into warm laughter. “I don’t hold it against you either way. You were doing what you had to for business, I can respect that.” Your reassurance is completely undeserved, but makes Boba relax all the same. (The world is a cruel place, but Maker, your kindness almost makes him want to forget that.) “You’ve got a reputation to uphold or something, right? I overheard Marlan say you’re some kind of hotshot hunter.”

“I told you, I’m the greatest bounty hunter in the world.” That pulls a giggle from you, thinking he’s joking. Grinning behind the helmet, he slowly walks over to you, every step heavy with confidence and _danger_ , until he’s so close he’s practically towering over you. “Careful, little mage. If I have to prove it to you, you’re not going to like it.”

The tension shifts, though not for the worse. You’re peering up at him cautiously, excitement hidden under a layer of trepidation. There’s a charge between the two of you like the air before a lightning storm, and Boba is content to watch your nervous face until you finally decide to press your luck. “Is that so, Fett? If I hadn’t cooperated and you weren’t going to sell me out, then what _would_ you have done?” There’s a hint of a smile on your lips as you taunt him.

In an instant, Boba has his hand wrapped around your neck. It’s not rough, he’s hardly applying any pressure, but the weight of it against your skin is heavy, and when you swallow he can feel the movement under his palm. He hums thoughtfully as he flexes his grip on you. “Call me Boba,” he says after a moment, his voice faux-sweet as though he were giving you a gift.

When he stares at you expectantly, you can’t seem to find your words, so you use what limited motion he’ll allow to nod.

Pleased, his hand wanders away from your throat, over your neck and up to the back of your head. Fingers lightly graze over your skin before suddenly grabbing a fistful of hair and pulling. There’s a slight sting and you gasp in response, tipping your head back and baring your neck to alleviate the pain.

His body moves closer to yours, the two of you nearly chest to chest. He leans in and you shudder when you feel the cool beskar of his helmet against the side of your neck, both of you savoring the intimacy of the gesture as Boba trails upwards until his concealed mouth is by your ear.

“I can think of a few things you might have enjoyed.”

And just like that, he lets go, moving away from you entirely to grab the basket and start heading upstairs. He holds his breath, waiting for your next move, and smiles when he hears you talking to yourself, following him up. 

“Yeah, that—that might have, uh, you probably could have, p-persuaded me, I think…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no I don't know how weather or geography works. don't @ me


	4. Admiration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I didn’t realize my reputation precedes me.”
> 
> “For the record, I’d never heard of you until yesterday when Marlan wouldn’t stop regaling us with some rather fantastical things he’d heard about you. No offense—I’m sure at least some of them were true, but I have a hard time believing you had your ability to smell removed.”
> 
> Boba can’t help but snort. “If that's the best he had to say, I'd rather not hear the rest of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of this is building up to something I promise this isn't just meaningless filler, you gotta trust me,,, all of these original characters and their backstories have purpose I SWEAR,,,
> 
> I'll be honest, I've been really goin' through it lately and this fic has been a huge comfort to write, so I hope y'all enjoy and find some comfort in it too. Thank you for the kind words and support!

The sun is only beginning to crawl over the horizon when Boba finishes getting fully equipped and ready to go. It’s earlier than he’d like, but he still checks on you before he leaves, gently brushing the hair out of your face and nudging you awake. “Make sure not to sleep the day away, little mage.” Your response is grumbled and indecipherable, exactly as he expected. 

Last night, you practically passed out after dinner. Boba has a sneaking suspicion that you’re far more drained from the scrying than you’re letting on, too stubborn to show weakness, especially to someone you barely know. That, or you don’t realize how much it has taken out of you and are unknowingly pushing yourself too hard. Both seem equally plausible and require him to keep an eye on you regardless.

Not that he hadn’t already planned to keep an eye on you.

“There’s breakfast on the table. Don’t forget to eat lunch.” A gloved hand ruffles your hair, and he chuckles when you blindly reach out and swat him away. “Alright, alright, message received. I’ll be back before evening.”

Boba stands and makes to leave, pausing only once at the doorway to look back at you and watch as you roll over, already fast asleep again.

It’s a short jaunt from your shop to the nearby forest, and he hardly makes it to the edge of town when he finds a knight waiting for him. She’s big—a little shorter than him, but broader, built with thick muscles and a boxy frame. Something in his brain notes with amusement that she would have made a fine Mandalorian. “Captain Lanara, I presume.”

She gives him a sharp nod, flipping up her visor to reveal surprisingly expressive eyes. He can already tell she’s stern, far more disciplined than any of the other guards he’s met so far, but she also seems genuinely excited to see him. Her voice is rich with warmth when she speaks. “Ah, that must make you the illustrious Boba Fett?”

“I didn’t realize my reputation precedes me.”

“For the record, I’d never heard of you until yesterday when Marlan wouldn’t stop regaling us with some rather fantastical things he’d heard about you. No offense—I’m sure at least some of them were true, but I have a hard time believing you had your ability to smell removed.”

Boba can’t help but snort. “If _that's_ the best he had to say, I'd rather not hear the rest of it.”

Lanara’s loud and booming laugh likely wakes several nearby residents, but she doesn’t seem to pay that any mind, too busy patting Boba on the back. “Aren’t you a treat! No wonder Vayle hated you right out the gate. I’d planned to apologize when I found out she’d picked a fight, but it seems you’ve already sorted her out, haven’t you?”

“She won’t be challenging me any time soon if she wants to keep what little pride I left her with.”

“How vicious!” Lanara says with far too much delight. “You would’ve made for a great disciplinary officer, you know that? Quite lucky for the rest of us you took to bounty hunting instead.” Boba stiffens, and the captain quickly realizes her misstep, raising her hands. “Ah, apologies! I used to be an Imperial officer, way back when. Those days are long behind me now though. If the Empire wanted me back, they’d have to take me cold. Anyway, I’m sure you’re not here to listen to me talk all day about nothing.”

He certainly isn’t, but Boba would be lying if he said he wasn’t intrigued. The captain seems to be rather forthcoming with that information, and he’s curious as to what _you_ know about it. For now, he mentally sets that aside. “Fentel said you had work for me?”

“Yes, something like that.” Boba tilts his helmet, a silent question, and Lanara turns to look towards the forest. “Do you have any experience hunting animals, Fett?”

“For survival. Never had any interest in hunting for sport.”

“Good, sport wouldn’t help you any with this. We’ve got something of a bear problem.”

“You don’t have any hunters that can take down a bear?”

“Well…” Lanara crosses one arm over her chest, the other coming up to stroke the chin of her helmet. “We’ve hunted bears before, certainly, but this one—she’s big. Grizzly. A real aggressive brute, too. Normally we just give her a wide berth, but lately she’s gotten very territorial over a much larger area. Last week she nearly attacked some children out by the creek, and we’ve _never_ seen her by the creek before.”

That poses an interesting challenge. Boba has hunted plenty of game, but rarely goes after bears; while the pelts are useful, the meat is too much for one man to finish without spoiling, unless he were to bother with the long effort of correctly curing it. Something like a grizzly bear is also a vastly different threat than the most dangerous of criminals. No person with a weapon can compare to several hundred kilos of muscle with teeth and claws, fashioned by nature specifically to kill. Boba’s not certain even beskar could save him if he got mauled.

“How big is ‘big,’ exactly?”

“Nobody who’s seen her has stuck around for very long, so I can’t say for sure.”

That gives him a starting point. “I need to know how big she is and roughly what her territory covers. We can plan how to take care of her after that.”

Lanara nods, clearly impressed with his initiative. “I can send some hunters to—”

“It’ll be faster if I do it.”

“Oh. Do you want someone to help—”

“No.” Boba’s checking over his crossbow and making sure he has bolts at the ready, along with digging up some chalk he snagged from your home. “Numbers aren’t going to help if the goal is to stay hidden.”

Lanara raises a brow, pointedly looking at Boba’s boldly painted armor. “...Right. But what if you get hurt and no one is around to help?”

Boba turns to the forest, not giving the captain a second glance. “I won’t.”

You could have _sworn_ you had more castor oil than this.

Being absent for several days means you have work to catch up on, and as you rummage through your materials, you can't help but notice certain things around your shop have moved. Nothing seems to be missing, necessarily, save for your already low supply of castor oil being reduced to nearly nothing, so you aren't too concerned about it; however, it does make you wonder if you're losing your mind or if Boba was more interested in your shop than he let on.

Or, perhaps more likely, he was bored and had nothing else to do besides rummage through your things? That certainly seems more plausible.

Getting more of it means that you’ll have to place an order with one of the import shops in Salis D’aar, which will be a trip of two days…

Boba would probably be glad to accompany you, if he has the time. Surely Fentel doesn’t have him too busy? Maybe you could wait to go until Boba is free. He’d probably appreciate that, right? Or—would he even want to go with you? He’s already stuck with you _here_ , why would he want to be stuck with you somewhere else?

Fuck. Why are you spending so much time thinking about Boba when he’s the one who used your stupid oil?

You put your face in your hands and groan just as the door to the shop swings open. Beneath your bemoaning, you hear barely contained laughter. “Trouble with the herbs today?”

“Yes. They’ve begun conspiring against me to plot my downfall.” You lean back and sigh before looking to the guard that’s entered. “Rhikar, shouldn’t you be out on patrol?”

She casually removes her helmet and tucks it under her arm. Same pretty face and sharp eyes as usual, flipping her dark hair over shoulder with a little bit of a flourish. “I would, but my patrol route today is through the woods and your _friend_ apparently has dibs on the forest this morning.” You blink at her, brows creasing. She laughs again and shakes her head as she approaches the counter to stand across from where you’re sitting. “The Captain has Fett looking for that bear people keep talking about. He wanted to go alone. Thinks the rest of us are going to ‘hold him back’ or whatever.”

That sounds like him, alright. “No offense Rhikar, but you guys probably would.” She makes a face at you and you shrug, unfazed by her response. “You should have seen how badly he floored your sister.”

“Uh, Vayle is a pretty _low_ bar to judge competency by.” You can’t help but laugh, and Rhikar brightens up slightly at your smile. “Honestly though, it’s kind of disappointing. Marlan was trying to trade me for my shift this morning because he really wanted to see the Mando in action.”

“How does Marlan even know about him? I didn’t think Marlan got out much.”

“His brothers all left when they came of age to go explore the world, and some of them write letters home still, so he hears a lot of…gossip.” Rhikar rolls her eyes. “Most of it is garbage, but I guess they were bound to tell him something true eventually.”

“Huh.” You turn your attention back to the order you’re trying to write up. “I’m surprised Marlan didn’t try to jump ship as soon as he was old enough. Didn’t he turn 16 last season?”

“Oh, he certainly wants to, but he’s the youngest child and his parents are getting old. If he leaves, there’s no one left to take care of them. Doubt his brothers would come back if they asked.”

You frown, tapping your quill idly in the margins of the page. “That’s unfair.”

Rhikar nods. “It is, but what else can he do? He’s not going to abandon his folks just because it’s not fair to him.” It’s hard for you to accept that some people are simply trapped in worse circumstances. You’ve experienced that firsthand, but it hasn’t made it any easier to stomach. Before your thoughts can spiral any further into the bottomless pit of nihilism, Rhikar leans forward, putting her helmet on the counter. “So? How did _you_ meet the bounty hunter?”

In retrospect, you probably should have prepared an answer to this question rather than daydreaming about a trip with Boba. You nervously roll the quill between your fingers, looking away. “He’s a customer. I'm helping him with a custom order. It’s going to take some time though, so he’s stuck here until it’s ready.”

There’s a pause as Rhikar narrows her eyes at you. She leans further over the counter, face close to yours, and you can feel a bead of sweat rolling down the back of your neck. After a long moment, Rhikar finally speaks, voice low. “Are you two in bed together?”

You tip your head back and groan at the ceiling, Rhikar pulling back to laugh and straighten herself up. Blood is rushing to your cheeks as you drape an arm over your eyes, unable to look Rhikar in the face. “Maker, how many people have started asking that?”

“Just about everyone.” You groan even louder and Rhikar’s laughter devolves into snickering. “What did you expect people to think? Some of the young folk from the market were suggesting that you were bedridden for three days because you couldn’t walk after how hard he—“

“Stop! I don’t want to hear another word!”

“Answer the question, then!”

You sit upright, pointing your quill at her and schooling your expression into something stern, despite the blush across your face. “We are _not—“_

A _slam_ from the front door being abruptly thrust open cuts you off, Captain Lanara standing in the doorway. Even with her helmet on, you can tell she’s out of breath from the rise and fall of her chest. “Apothecary! Something to treat wounds, quickly!”

You’re on your feet, satchel in hand and rushing out the door with the captain before you even finish processing what she’s saying. “What happened? What’s going on?” Rhikar is following behind, you’re pretty sure, but you don’t have the mind to look back and check.

“Your friend requested to track the bear alone this morning,” Lanara explains, “but apparently Marlan thought Fett was going to kill the beast and found it to be a good idea to show up in the woods, unannounced, to watch Fett in action, and of course, the blundering idiot, that _stupid child_ —“

For the record, you completely understand why Boba is as pissed as he is when you arrive at the edge of town.

A handful of guards are gathered around Marlan, along with the town doctor, Peth. They’ve got enough cloth between the lot of them to staunch the bleeding, but the wounds need to be disinfected, possibly stitched. You almost don't spot Boba, who is lingering nearby but out of the way, propped up underneath an old willow tree with his arms crossed as he watches over the scene. It’s hard to gauge exactly what he’s thinking from here, but you know he’s mad—if he weren’t, he’d be at Marlan’s side right now.

(Your thoughts briefly flit to Boba giving you water after you woke from the scrying, and you have to shove those rose-tinted memories aside to focus.)

There are some residents starting to gather to spectate the scene, and it takes a bit of effort for you to weave through them and make your way to the heart of it all. You squeeze out of the growing crowd next to Peth, the weathered old gentleman that’s been the town’s only doctor for as long as most people can remember. Frown lines and crow's feet are deeply etched into his face, but his eyes still shine with compassion and warmth. He turns to you and holds out a hand expectantly.

You quickly hand him a large bottle of cleansing alcohol, a jar of salve for sealing fresh wounds, and a pale green paste to dull pain. Peth nods appreciatively and turns back to Marlan without a word.

Marlan doesn’t seem to notice you, understandably so—the large gashes across his chest and shoulders don’t look very pleasant, nor does the distinct bite wound in his right arm. They’ve got him laid out on the ground, one of the guards running a hand through his hair and trying to soothe him as he sobs. Through the tears, you can just barely make out what he’s saying; an apology for causing so much trouble, whimpered from his lips between shuddering gasps.

Trusting that the doctor will handle the rest, you excuse yourself from the scene and head over to Boba.

You’re not exactly sure when Boba noticed you were here, but as you approach him, he’s still watching Marlan. It’s when you’re a few paces away that he turns his head in your direction, speaking only loud enough for you to hear. “I should have left him to the bear. That idiot almost killed both of us.” 

When you’re standing within arm’s length of Boba, you look him up and down, slowly. (It doesn’t escape your notice that his blade is missing.) Boba tenses as you lift your hand, but he doesn’t stop you, even breathes out slowly and seems to calm down a fraction when the warmth of your hand meets the skin of his neck. You look at where the two of you touch for a moment longer before glancing up to where his eyes presumably are. “You’re hurt.”

You hold up your hand to show him the blood on your fingertips, and his helmet turns _just enough_ to shoot another look at Marlan before you grab his hand and drag Boba’s attention back to you. “Come on, at least let me take care of you.”

After weighing the cost in his head, Boba decides not to fight you on this, pushing off the willow to stand properly in front of you. “There’s a cut on my chin. Some bruising on my ribs but nothing broken. Need to take it easy on my left leg, but that should be fine too.” He came out far better than Marlan did, at least. “Don’t think my chin needs stitches.”

One of your fingers comes up and taps the bottom of Boba’s helmet. “Can you lift this a tad?”

Surprisingly, he does so with little hesitation. Blood is trickling from the cut that thankfully appears to be fairly minor. You tell him to hold still as you clean the wound, and you’re not surprised at how Boba doesn’t flinch at the sting of alcohol. He does, however, seem to recoil when you open another jar of salve. “Oh, don’t get shy on me _now_. We’re almost done.”

“What’s in it?” He leans forward enough to get a whiff of it before immediately leaning away. Not an uncommon reaction, given how strong some of the herbs tend to smell.

You can’t help the deadpan look you give him. “Oh, so you're okay with complex magic, but not a little ointment? Trust me for a moment.”

In an instant, Boba’s entire demeanor seems to soften. He moves closer to you, lifts his helmet a fraction more, leans down so you can reach him with more ease. He doesn’t verbalize it, not here where any of these people might witness it, but you hear him loud and clear all the same.

_I trust you._

Using your thumb, you scoop up a small dab of the salve, biting your cheek and trying not to look as flustered as you suddenly feel. You rub the ointment over the cut, smoothing and thinning the protective layer by tracing small circles over his skin. You try not to think about the stubble along his jawline, or what kind of hair he has and how he wears it, or whether his eyes match the intensity of his fury versus the tenderness you suspect hides right below the surface of beskar and tough attitude that protects him.

You linger for a moment too long, but Boba doesn’t make any efforts to stop you. Eventually your motions slow and you pull away, awkwardly wiping the remaining salve from your thumb onto a rag tucked into your satchel. “Um. That should do it.”

Boba shoves his helmet back down with one hand, keeping his gaze fixed on you while he does so. There’s something in the silence between the two of you that can’t be named, hanging in the air as an unspoken question. It makes your cheeks warm and your heart flutter and threatens to swallow you whole the more you think about it.

Thankfully, Boba breaks the silence first. “This smell better not stick to the inside of my helmet.”

You grin and give a lighthearted shrug. “I can’t make any promises.”

“Wicked creature.” There’s something dangerously close to adoration in his voice that makes you blush again. You look back to Marlan to distract yourself and Boba follows your gaze, letting out a displeased hum. “Will he survive?”

“If his wounds don’t get infected, I suspect he’ll be alright.” Boba doesn’t say anything more and you glance over, trying to get a read on the hunter’s mood. “Marlan’s mumbling out apologies right now while they’re treating him. Trying to apologize to _you_ , most likely.”

“Good. He owes me.” Despite the curt tone, Boba’s jaw seems to unclench (from what you can tell by his neck, anyway), his anger slowly fading bit by bit. He seems to be making a conscious effort to calm himself, though whether it’s for Marlan’s benefit, your benefit, or his own, you can't be sure.

Seeing as there’s nothing else for you to contribute, it’d be most productive for you to head back to the shop and continue working. Boba is waiting for Captain Lanara though, and while you know the man would be perfectly fine waiting on his own, you can’t help but want to keep him company. That’s cut short when Rhikar approaches, giving a small bow to Boba before turning to you with a sheepish smile. “Apologies, but in all of the commotion, I seem to have left my helmet at your shop.”

“Oh!” Come to think of it, you hadn’t even locked the doors when you left. Not that there was much crime in a small town where everyone knows everyone, but still. You look to Boba. “I’ll see you later. And I’m making dinner tonight, so don’t you _dare_ try to swoop in with something from the market.” He holds his hands up in surrender, as if you’d caught him in the act, and you smile before retreating back to work, Rhikar in tow.

Most of the crowd has begun to disperse and many of the guards have left to return to their posts by the time Captain Lanara makes her way over to speak to Boba. Her visor is down and in contrast to her relaxed attitude this morning, she’s as rigid as her armor, voice firm and all business. “I sincerely apologize for Marlan’s behavior. He put both of you in grave danger and should have known better. I’ll see to it that he’s properly disciplined once he’s recovered.”

The exhaustion is clear in the captain’s voice, and Boba’s not interested in making this any more difficult than it has to be. “Just make sure he doesn’t get himself killed in the future.”

She nods. “I would also like to thank you for saving him. It was his own foolishness that put him in that position, but I know he’s grateful to you, as are his parents.”

Unsure of what to say, Boba gives a half-hearted shrug. “It’s nothing.”

Lanara tilts her head at him, as if to acknowledge that it most certainly _isn’t_ nothing, but she doesn’t press the matter any further. “Please also thank the apothecary on my behalf.”

“They’re glad to help.” Boba knows that with certainty, even if you hadn’t outright said it.

The captain looks at him for a long moment, internally debating with something she wants to say; when she decides to speak, she flips her visor up, revealing a scrutinizing eye as she looks at Boba. “Forgive my prying, Fett...are you intending to court the apothecary?”

Boba stares back at her, his flat tone concealing his emotions as well as his beskar helm does. “It is of no one’s concern my dealings with the apothecary.”

She chuckles, the corners of her eyes crinkling in good-natured humor. “Certainly. However, I would like to give a word of advice if you intend to seek their affections.” Boba doesn’t move or show any indication one way or the other, so Lanara continues. “The guard that left with them earlier is Rhikar, Vayle’s sister, and she’s been infatuated with the apothecary for some time now.”

It takes a considerable amount of willpower to not outwardly react, even as something heated and possessive curls in his stomach. Boba maintains a neutral tone, if only just barely. “Is that so.”

“I don’t know how much the apothecary reciprocates, if at all,” Lanara says in a jovial and speculative tone that reminds Boba more of Fentel than he'd like, “but I suspect Rhikar may feel pressured to act soon since she views you as competition.”

“I see.” This information begins rolling back and forth in Boba’s mind as he tries to push it aside for more important matters. “I’d like to discuss the bear, if we’re done with idle chatter.”

“Of course, good sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be porn in the next chapter I PROMISE


	5. Undefined Relationship [NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Little mage,” he says, warm and deep, a velvety weight in your ears that shoots heat into your core, “if you want something of me, you need only ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is paced kind of strangely I think but I said there would be porn and by god there it is
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for the kind words and feedback! I hope you enjoy!

The moment Boba crosses the threshold into your living room, he stops and takes a deep inhale. “ _Maker_ , that smells delicious.”

You smile as you finish stirring the bubbling pot of soup, placing the lid back on to allow it time to simmer. “That’s the advantage of knowing your herbs and spices.” You wipe your hands on a nearby dishrag and smooth out the wrinkles of your apron before stepping out of the kitchen. “It’ll be ready shortly.”

Boba surprisingly starts taking off his armor right then and there, and you blink, watching with rapt fascination as he begins methodically removing the beskar plating piece by piece. He speaks casually while he does so, not at all bothered by your gawking. “In that case, you’re in charge of meals from now on. No point in me grabbing food from the market if you’re a regular homebody.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s speaking to you, distracted as you are, but the moment you do, you grab the spoon from the counter and aggressively point it at him. “Oh, no you don’t! Just because you’re some big shot bounty hunter and I’m a little merchant doesn’t mean you get to shelve me away to do your chores.”

He laughs, the sound loose and easy, and you can’t help but feel glad to hear him so relaxed with you. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought you’d say.” Boba’s down to his gambeson, trousers, shoes, and helm when he finally takes a seat at the table. “I’m sure the moment I push my luck, you’ll start poisoning my meals.”

“Poison is one of the many tools at my disposal, yes.” You fetch some bowls from the cabinet, wiping down the insides to make sure they’re clean of dust. It’s been a long time since you’ve shared a proper meal with a guest. “How’d everything go with the bear? Aside from Marlan, I mean.”

“We have a plan, at least.” Boba leans back, arms crossed as he thinks, shifting into his tracker mindset. “I got close enough to know her approximate size. She’s too large to take out with standard equipment, so the Captain is commissioning a blacksmith to make a custom bear trap.” You hum in acknowledgement, pausing when you feel his gaze on you and looking over to him. “I’d actually like your help with this.”

You’re immediately skeptical. “Boba, I don’t know anything about hunting.”

“I know you don’t.” He turns to his side, putting his elbow on the table to prop himself up as he watches you. “Have you ever used magic on animals?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no.” There’s a _thud_ as you set the wooden bowl in your hands onto the counter a bit too roughly. “I’m not using magic out in the open where anyone could see me, and I’m certainly not going to try it on a giant, murderous bear.”

His voice remains calm, despite how you're becoming less so. “She’s behaving erratically. Something is agitating her, and if we figure out what that is, she may calm down.”

Your gaze flicks across his helmet, trying to gauge his expression through the impassive beskar. “You care about saving this bear, Boba?”

“No, but whatever’s irritating her will likely start disturbing the rest of the forest, if it hasn’t already.”

That makes more sense, at least. “I’m not a druid,” you say, a bit more bitterly than you intended as you turn away from him. “I can’t sense those types of disturbances.”

“Have you tried?” Judging by the smug tone in his voice, Boba already knows the answer to that. “It’s going to take a day or two for the trap to be made. Come with me to the forest and at least give it a go.”

“Are you forgetting that you and Marlan nearly died today?!” You don’t mean to raise your voice at him, you honestly don’t, but when you whirl back around, your emotions get the better of you. Boba also seems surprised, recoiling just a fraction before slowly sitting up. The tension in his shoulders sets off a warning bell in your mind, but you push forward since you have the momentum. “You want me to go out there and deliberately seek out a massive wild animal, to, to—what, see if I can sense its _feelings_? Put my life at risk and politely _ask_ the beast what has her so worked up? Maybe if I go out there and let her maul me, she’ll get all the aggression out of her system and calm down!”

Boba begins to stand as you finish your tirade, then slowly stalks over to you, moving in near silence despite the usual creaking of your old floorboards. You stand your ground, hands clenched into fists at your sides and glaring as he approaches. He stops just short of standing pressed against you, and as his hand comes up, you close your eyes and flinch, waiting for the worst.

The gentle caress of his hand cradling your cheek startles you and sends a shiver down your spine. After a moment, you tentatively open your eyes, peering up at him. His shoulders have slumped, his entire posture having changed in an instant to something softer, almost tender. Boba’s voice is a low murmur through the beskar. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I promise.”

The sincerity of his words makes your eyes begin to water, and you quickly blink the tears away, raising your hand to rest over Boba’s on your cheek. “You don’t even have your sword anymore, idiot.”

“Should’ve made a stop at the blacksmith like you suggested.” You can’t help the small bubble of laughter that arises, gently trying to swat his hand away so he can’t look at you out of embarrassment, but his other hand goes to your lower back and holds you close, preventing you from escaping. Boba leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “I mean it. I wouldn’t ask you to come with me if I didn’t intend to protect you.”

“It’s still a stupid idea,” you mumble, your voice absent of all its previous venom. “You can’t just ask me to ‘use the Force’ whenever you need to figure something out, you know.”

“You’re welcome to start poisoning my meals whenever you’re tired of me.” You let out a snort of laughter, immediately embarrassed again. This time, Boba has mercy on you and redirects his attention. “Can I at least have some of the soup before you lace it with nightshade?”

“I’m probably going to use oleander, but yes.” You pat Boba's hand on your cheek, silently asking him to release you. Boba lets go and strolls back over to his seat at the table as you grab the bowls off the counter. You imitate the matter-of-fact, deadpan tone Boba uses when telling one of his dry jokes. “Nightshade is useful for other things, I’m not going to waste it on you.”

“You wound me.”

“Not yet, I haven’t.” He chuckles and you roll your eyes, unable to resist the smile tugging at your lips. You ladle out a generous helping for each of you, balancing both bowls as you step out of the kitchen. “Just wait until you taste the…” Your words trail off and you stop in your tracks, nearly dropping everything.

Boba’s helmet is sitting on the table. He’s running a hand through his hair, trying to fluff it back up after spending all day under the helm like this is the most normal thing in the world. He glances at you and raises a brow, a smug grin on his face as he takes in your reaction. “Something wrong, little mage?”

He’s handsome.

He’s _outrageously_ handsome.

He’s roguish and charming and the hard line of his jaw looks like it was _chiseled_ from stone and dark eyes are as fiercely intense as he is and—

You can’t stop blatantly staring. Boba takes pity on you and snags one of the bowls from your hands, deliberately letting his fingers brush over your own. You vaguely register him thanking you but are too focused on the confidence in his voice that entices you far more than it should.

In a daze, you drift your way over to the opposite seat at the table, plopping into the chair and setting your soup down only to be stuck staring at Boba’s face again. He still has a brow raised, waiting for you to say something, but as it becomes clear that you’re struggling with words, he tears his attention away from you long enough to take a sip from the bowl. Your condition is only worsened when Boba closes his eyes and practically moans. “Oh, _Maker_ , that’s good.”

That snaps you out of your reverie, although the compliment can’t possibly make you blush any harder than you already are. “I thought you’d like it! I-It has some, um, shallots and chives, plus some bay leaf...” You end up rambling more than you mean to about the soup, trying to focus on that rather than the gorgeous man in front of you. You honestly have no idea whether or not Boba cares about a word you’re saying, but he’s clearly enjoying the meal itself, so you’ll count that as a win either way.

When you start running out of soup-based conversation material, Boba picks up the slack by telling you about some of the _worst_ food he’s had in his travels, giving you time to eat your own meal in turn and successfully distracting you from your own nervous thoughts. You almost choke with laughter more than once—between the roasted worm on a stick and the blue milk, you’re not sure which is worse—and the atmosphere is cheery and comfortable again.

It isn’t until after dinner is done, the dishes are washed, and you’re getting ready for bed that Boba addresses the elephant in the room.

You’ve changed into your sleep clothes and are just about to pop your head out to bid Boba goodnight when Boba beats you to your bedroom door, startling you. He looks down at you with focused determination, like he’s made a plan and committed to it. You know he’s not going to hurt you, but he _does_ look like he’s about to eat you alive, and you instinctively take a step back, inadvertently allowing Boba to step into your room.

“Little mage,” he says, warm and deep, a velvety weight in your ears that shoots heat into your core, “if you want something of me, you need only ask.”

Boba herds you backwards until your knees hit the bed, and you stumble back, landing on your ass on the bed and looking up at Boba. It’s impossible to miss the outline of his cock straining against his pants, and your mouth waters thinking about how thick and heavy it must be. Biting your lip, you take a steadying breath before allowing yourself to fall completely back, laying before him and tentatively spreading your legs.

“Take me, please?”

What you assumed would be a brief romp turns into an all-night affair, your body exhausted after Boba works you through several climaxes: one on your hands and knees while he rutted into you like a desperate animal; one on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist while he grinded deeply into you, keeping your mouth busy by kissing you passionately like a lover would; some particularly exciting ones after you rode him slowly, teasing him and working him up until he snarled and flipped you over, holding you down and fucking you through several orgasms in quick succession, leaving you an overstimulated, teary mess by the time he finally came.

Boba lets himself spill over your stomach, groaning deeply as he does so and reveling afterward in the vision of you, spent and ravished and _soiled_ beneath him. He leans over to kiss you sweetly, murmuring praise against your lips before getting up. You're nearly asleep when he starts cleaning you with a damp cloth, and by the time he's climbing into your bed, wrapping the blanket around both of you and pulling you over to curl up against his side, you can only mumble your thanks, drifting off to sleep in the moments after.

You wake earlier than Boba for once.

The only reason you know that is because he’s asleep at your back, an arm draped over your middle to hold you close, your head tucked under his chin. The moment you start to stir, Boba’s hold tightens, and he grumbles something about getting some rest and presses a kiss to your hair before settling again.

Smiling to yourself, you acquiesce, closing your eyes and relaxing into his arms.

Waking up tangled with you in your bed isn’t what Boba had expected to happen, but he can’t deny that it was a pleasant surprise.

He’d honestly been a little uncertain how things were going to progress from there, but you took everything in stride like nothing had changed between the two of you. When you got up, you acted as if it was completely normal for him to be naked in your bed, gently teasing him about both of you sleeping in late and reminding him there was still plenty of soup in the kitchen.

So, as far as Boba is concerned, nothing’s changed. Everything is exactly as it was, except that now he knows the taste of you and can’t help but think of it every time you smile at him.

Much to your amusement, Boba needs to purchase a new sword, so he ends up going to the blacksmith just as you’d suggested days ago.

Once there, Boba has a hard time focusing on what the blacksmith is saying.

Not that he’s not interested; it’s rare that Boba has to find a new blade, and since this is a critical tool of his trade and an important long-term investment, he needs to be particular about what he gets. No, it’s that you came into the shop _with_ him and are now looking at the various weapon displays with delight.

He’s terribly fond of your enthusiasm, but equally just as wary of it.

Eventually, Boba ends up speaking over the blacksmith to address you. “If you hurt yourself, I’m not helping you.”

“I’m an apothecary, I’m _fairly_ certain I can help myself.” You make sure Boba can clearly see you rolling your eyes, your fingers lingering on the handle of the large flail you're contemplating picking up. “Shouldn’t you be picking out a new knife or something?”

“It’s hard to focus when you’re an accident waiting to happen.”

The weaponsmith, a gruff man only a handful of years older than Boba, finally decides to get involved. “Herbalist, not that you aren’t capable of handling yourself,” which may not have been the best way to start that sentence because now you’re narrowing your eyes at him from across the room, “but if something happens to you, the old man’s going to have my hide.”

Your hand falls away from the flail and you cross your arms, heaving out a big sigh and trying not to pout (and definitely failing). Boba snorts and shakes his head before turning back to the weaponsmith. “I need to try the swords before I make a decision.”

“Of course!” The weaponsmith begins picking up the ones he’d been recommending, sheathing them and setting them aside on the counter. “My shop is too small for much maneuvering, unfortunately, but the militia captain lets us borrow their training grounds to test the weaponry.”

A headache is already starting to form as Boba’s imagination vividly conjures a thousand annoying scenarios featuring the town guard. You, however, scurry over to his side, grinning ear to ear. “Hear that, Boba? You get to show off for everyone.”

“ _Wonderful_ ,” he drawls, sarcasm thick and bitter on his tongue. You simply laugh, patting him on the shoulder.

The ‘training grounds’ are actually just a big, grassy field with training dummies and targets set up. It’s blessedly empty when Boba arrives with the weaponsmith, you heading off to inform Lanara they’ll be borrowing the space. Inspecting the training dummies, they appear to be made of burlap sacks filled with straw, many of them having ragged tears that were clumsily sewn shut. Boba puts his foot to one and gives it a halfhearted kick, immediately toppling the entire thing. “Incredible.”

“Aye, it’s not exactly inspiring,” the weaponsmith says with a chuckle. “They make do with what they’ve got.” He sets the swords out along a small table that Boba missed, the little thing being nearly overgrown by tall grass. “Go ahead and help yourself. Take your time.”

Boba glances them over and picks the one on the far left, intending to methodically make his way through all of them. He idly speaks as he inspects the blade, knowing the weaponsmith will be listening. “I don’t understand why this town has such a large militia. It’s not even named on the maps that bother including it.”

“Maps are tricky because they kept renaming the town every couple of years when governance would change. Mayor Glin’s held the position for some years now, but most of us have forgotten what the last name was, and the old man never bothered picking a new one.”

Knowing Fentel, Boba’s certain that it was a deliberate choice, though as to how the town benefits from having no way to reference it, Boba can only speculate.

“As for the town guard…well.” Boba glances back to the weaponsmith who has taken a seat on the ground, idly scratching at his scruffy beard. “The Empire’s not exactly on our doorstep, but if they keep expanding the way they are, I guess Lanara figures it’s only a matter of time before they show up.”

“Lanara intends to fight, then?”

“Don’t know. She’s no fool, she has to realize a town like this can’t stand up to the Empire. Not sure what she thinks the militia is going to do when the time comes, though.”

Boba spends a moment in quiet contemplation with this information before turning back to the standing dummies. It’s not his business what the Empire does or what happens to this town. He might be fond of _one_ person that lives in it, but that’s not enough for him to get invested in the whole town’s fate.

And, if he can convince you to join him when it's time to leave, maybe he can forget this place entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already have most of the next chapter written already? I normally don't write this fast but things have been stressful lately and writing has been a great source of comfort, so enjoy this continuous stream of inspiration while it lasts?


	6. Living Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not these days, they don’t. But a long, long time ago, we all had to learn how to hold our own.” Fentel glances over at you and sees that your attention is elsewhere, then looks back to Boba, expression turning somber. “That was before Jango, anyway.”
> 
> Boba visibly stiffens, becoming more rigid than his beskar plating. “…Not many people know about my father’s involvement with the Empire.”
> 
> “True.” Fentel offers a coy smile that lacks his usual mirth. He strokes his wispy beard and pretends to be deep in thought. “Now, what kind of person would know about the Empire’s secret dealings in dark magic…?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory? Unnecessary world building? Misused sword fighting terminology? So much sexual tension that Boba has weaponized it? This chapter has it ALL, baybee. Enjoy!
> 
>  **Sensitive Content Warning:** There is a conversation late in the chapter between Boba and Fentel where deceased parents (for Boba and the reader-insert) are mentioned and briefly discussed. There's no details regarding what happened to them, but there is talk about grief and mourning.

Boba pointedly ignores everyone who comes to watch him, so he isn’t sure how quickly the group of spectators forms. Some of them are clearly from the guard and currently in uniform, others are in casual garb but watching with fascination all the same.

He’s tested nearly every sword when he accidentally destroys the final training dummy, having already accidentally destroyed all of the others prior. There’s laughter and clapping from the crowd and frustrated silence from Boba as the blacksmith whistles, going over to nudge the remains with his boot. “Sure did a number on these straw fellas, Fett.”

“Is Lanara going to be upset about this?” Boba couldn’t care one way or the other how Lanara feels, but he’d rather have the chance to be prepared if she’s going to be furious.

“Naw, she’ll probably use it as an excuse to have Fentel get some better ones made. Might mean some extra business for me!”

“Glad to help,” Boba responds, flatly and with absolute indifference. “What now?”

One of the guards, indistinguishable from their comrades-at-arms, boldly steps forward. “Perhaps we could assist you in training, Lord Fett?”

Another guard slaps them on the chest with the back of their hand. “ _Sir_ Fett! He’s not a lord!”

“Hush! You’re embarrassing me right now!”

“You’re embarrassing yourself!”

The two continue bickering while Boba watches, shaking his head. For all he knows, they’re just as young as Marlan, and he’s not going to waste his time entertaining children.

“As popular as ever, Boba?” He turns at the sound of your voice, just as you walk up with Lanara. The Captain has her helm tucked under her arm and quickly begins shouting something at the bickering guards, both of whom immediately clam up and stand at attention. Boba should be watching for how the captain’s responding to the situation, but he’s distracted by the glitter of amusement in your eyes as you speak. “You’ve become a real controversial figure, you know.”

“More so than I already was?”

“You nearly kill a guard one day, save another guard’s life the next? Certainly.”

“I did _not_ almost kill Vayle.”

“According to the local gossip, you did.” Boba fights back a sigh of resignation, instead staying neutral and stern. Rather, he tries, but you see right through him and laugh at his straight faced response, knowing he’s exasperated beneath the helm. “You’re the most exciting thing to happen to this town in a long time! Of _course_ they’re talking about you and exaggerating everything they say.”

Boba shifts ever so subtly forward, studying you. “Did they do the same when you arrived?”

Judging by the surprise on your face before you look away, he hit the nail on the head. “I was the most exciting thing _before_ you. I...didn’t have crowds of people fawning over me, though.”

Before Boba can say anything, Captain Lanara is suddenly beside him, and he turns his head as she puts a hand on his shoulder. Her tone is of mock upset as she holds up a fistful of straw in her other hand. “Fett! You slaughtered our entire population of dummies!”

“Nonsense. Some of them are still out on patrol, surely.”

Her laugh is big and booming as she puts her hands on her hips, flashing him a wide grin after. “Well, then. If you’re willing to talk big, care to wager a bet?”

Boba should say no, because this can’t _possibly_ be anything good, but curiosity gets the better of him. “The terms?”

“Any of my guards who want to fight you get a shot. They lose the moment you knock them down. If any of them can remain standing for a minute, I win.”

He tilts his head to show his interest. This, Boba can at least get through quickly. “And what are you wagering?”

“If you win, I’ll pay for your new sword. And if I win, you help me train the guards for a few days. Give them some pointers and such.”

“You’re clearly getting the better deal.” Boba tucks his thumbs into the belt on his hips, leaning into a cockier stance. “One day.”

Lanara sighs, but nods her head. “You drive a hard bargain, Fett. It’s a deal.” She offers out her hand, and after one last moment of contemplation, he shakes, sealing the agreement.

Boba decides which sword he wants roughly six guards into the bet.

After that, he’s bored.

You, at least, look plenty entertained, watching him with clear enthusiasm from where you sit in a patch of clovers and daisies nearby, legs tucked underneath yourself. But then he’s fifteen guards in, each just as easy to topple as the last, and Boba would rather be doing _anything_ else. He would rather be stuck in your shop, passing his time with books about plants and magic and old history, waiting for you to wake again.

He’d rather be bending you over the store’s counter and fucking you senseless until the neighbors hear you screaming his name.

Boba’s almost through all of the guards willing to fight when Vayle and Rhikar arrive. He can tell Vayle is here for a rematch by the way she’s standing, even before she tosses her helmet to one of the other guards for them to hold. Rhikar, however, doesn’t seem terribly interested in Boba at all, and instead drifts over to you.

He has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to focus on Vayle.

Surprisingly, Vayle doesn’t say anything when she takes her starting position across from Boba—she simply squares up with her sword and waits for him to make the first move. This silent determination is a far cry from the reckless young woman he’d seen only days ago, and already several steps above the rest of the guards that had all been eager to throw themselves onto his blade.

Boba obliges, leading with a clearly telegraphed thrust that she easily parries. They have a good bit of back-and-forth, Vayle successfully keeping her defense tight to avoid what happened last time. Boba grins when he realizes this is the furthest any of the guards have gotten. “You’ve decided to take this seriously, then?”

Vayle narrows her eyes ever so slightly, but otherwise doesn’t take the bait.

Boba takes a step back, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he counts the seconds in his head. Thirty left. “Alright. I’ll take you seriously.”

Anything Rhikar was saying to you is completely lost as you’re entranced by Boba. The shift from ‘Boba messing with guards’ to ‘Boba looking to _win_ ’ is as stark as day and night, and you realize that this is the closest you’ve gotten to seeing Boba _truly_ in his element.

His offense abruptly becomes several degrees more aggressive and, though Vayle had been holding her own before, now she can’t keep up. Boba moves with superior speed and strength, and Vayle can only barely block most of the strikes, not having nearly enough time to riposte. That lasts for a solid ten seconds, and then, in an instant, it’s over—it takes only two seconds for Boba to disarm and pin Vayle, one arm wrenched behind her back, holding her down with the bulk of his form. _A bounty hunter indeed_ , you muse as Vayle writhes in protest, attempting to free herself.

“If you keep struggling, you’ll dislocate your shoulder,” Boba warns, his tone stern and serious as opposed to the hint of playfulness he’d shown before. Vayle quickly ceases her movements and sighs, resting her forehead against the ground. “Wise choice.”

Boba stands and offers Vayle a hand, to your surprise and hers. She hesitantly takes it and he hoists her upright with ease, putting a hand on her shoulder before leaning in to say something to her. You can’t make it out, can’t even try to read his lips because of his stupid helmet, but Vayle seems…placated. The disappointment is still clear on her face, but the anger seems to melt away as she nods to him and walks away to retrieve her sword.

You’re dying to know what that was about, but before you can try to catch Boba’s attention, Rhikar is getting up from where she sat at your side. “Oh, _fuck_ this guy,” she hisses under her breath.

You can understand her anger—if you didn’t know Boba, that must have looked like he went much harder on Vayle than anyone else to shame her a second time. Were you in Rhikar’s shoes, you’d also be pissed. But you’ve learned better, and it seems Vayle has, too: Boba went harder on Vayle because he knew she could handle it.

It was one of the highest compliments he could give.

Rhikar steps forward to challenge Boba next, and Boba’s helmet turns to you for a split second. You furrow your brows, not sure what he’s trying to get at, but then his attention is on Rhikar again as she points her sword at him. “You must think you’re so high and mighty, don’t you?”

Boba’s stance hasn’t relaxed since Vayle, and you have a sinking feeling that Rhikar is making a mistake. Boba tilts his head, seeming to think so too. “I don’t. I know my capabilities and my limits, and I plan accordingly. None of you are a threat because I have significantly more experience with opponents of much higher caliber. Instead of posturing, you should acknowledge when you’re out of your depth and take a step back. You’ll be less likely to get hurt.”

His words have the exact opposite effect and only make Rhikar even angrier. Which—again, fair. Boba might be objectively correct, but her pride is also on the line now, not just Vayle’s. (And Boba is, admittedly, a bit of an ass.) “You’re going to regret underestimating me, Fett.”

Boba responds by being even _more_ of an ass, sheathing his sword entirely and gesturing for Rhikar to come at him anyway.

It’s enough to send her into a frenzy.

Rhikar is one of the most capable of the guards, immediately obvious in the way she moves quickly and with more emphasis on technique than the other guards thus far. Boba has to work to dodge her strikes, but he only needs to wait until her footing is the slightest bit out of place before striking back. He takes the moment of opportunity and uses his leg to hook his foot around her ankle, and in one swift movement, he sweeps her leg out from under her. Rhikar falls onto her back, sword dropping from her hand.

It happens so abruptly, Rhikar is stunned speechless, still processing what’s just happened as she lays sprawled out on the ground. Boba rests his hand leisurely on the hilt of his blade and turns to the gathering of guards, half having been spectating, the other half having gotten their asses kicked by Boba. “Anyone else?” There’s some murmuring among them, but nobody else steps forward. After a moment of silence, Boba speaks again, his voice serious and cold. “You’ve all just learned an important lesson: don’t pick a fight you can’t win.”

Boba doesn’t help Rhikar up like he’d done for Vayle, instead ignoring her entirely to walk over to you and offering _you_ a hand up. You give him a questioning look, even as you take his hand and are pulled to your feet. “That wasn’t terribly inspiring.”

“I’m not here to inspire. Hell, I should be charging for the lesson since I won the bet.” Something about Boba’s mood seems to have shifted, and you can sense genuine irritation underneath the usual aloof bravado. Unsure, you hesitantly reach out and put a hand on his arm, and Boba instinctively tenses for a moment before he catches himself. He sees your concern and shakes his head, putting his hand over yours and giving it a squeeze. He lowers his voice so only you can hear. “Later, little mage.”

You don’t get to question him any further than that as a familiar figure approaches. Despite being the very definition of a little old man, Fentel’s voice is strong and manages to cut through the hubbub. “My, my! Quite the excitement wherever our new friend goes.”

Boba relaxes a fraction at seeing Fentel, but you’re distracted by what Fentel’s holding. “I thought you said your leg was fine, you geezer. Why do you have your cane?” Boba reminds you that it’s not a cane and you ignore him, jabbing him slightly with your elbow. (You immediately regret the decision as the beskar _hurts_ something fierce, but you refuse to let that show, even if Boba seems to be aware and is laughing softly behind the helmet.)

Fentel chuckles as he comes to stand by you both, wearing his usual cheery smile. “I heard that Sir Fett was doing some demonstrations today and figured I’d pop on by. He had a question for me the other day, and I was hoping we could figure out the answer together.”

You turn on your heel immediately and point at Boba. “Do _not_. Don’t you _dare_.”

Boba looks to you, then to Fentel, then back to you. “He’s the one asking—“

“I cannot believe you’re going to argue with me about fighting an old man!”

Fentel waves off your concerns, gesturing to Boba. “I’m sure the lad won’t go too hard on me. And besides, who wouldn’t want to go out fighting a Mandalorian?”

“You’re about to leave your wife a widow and you’re standing here making jokes about it.” Boba and Fentel are two of the most stubborn people you’ve ever met, so you’re already well aware you can’t stop them if they want to do this. You do, however, poke Boba on the chest, trying to instill a sense of authority despite the fact he can definitely snap you in half like a twig at any given moment. “I swear to the Maker, Boba, if you kill him, I’ll…uh, I’ll…”

Boba crosses his arms and tilts his head, and you can hear the challenge in his voice. “Go on, then. Let’s hear this threat of yours. And I already know you’re planning to poison my meals, so you’ll need to think of something else.”

“I’ll…summon a swarm of bees...?”

“You’ve already told me that you can’t actually do that.”

“No, I said that the upside down rune wasn’t actually going to summon bees. I never said that _I_ couldn’t.”

“This is, hands down, the worst bluff I’ve ever heard. If I call you on this, you’ll have to either admit that it’s an empty threat and that you can’t do it, _or_ you’ll have to conjure a cloud of bees and then _explain to everyone_ why the town is covered in bees.”

“First of all, _summoning_ bees and _conjuring_ bees are two _completely_ separate things. Second of all—“

“Children,” Fentel finally cuts in, though he was clearly enjoying watching the two of you. “I’m afraid I may die of old age if we don’t speed this along!”

Boba snorts and gestures for Fentel to follow him to the center of the training grounds. Shaking your head, you resign to watching from the side, arms crossed over your chest in worry.

  
  


Some of the guards had been preparing to take off, others lingering around for some actual training, but when everyone sees Boba step up with Fentel, they all go quiet. Boba’s very uncertain how this is going to go, and it makes his blood rush with excitement.

Lanara walks over to Fentel as he draws his sword. “You sure about this, Glin? When was the last time you even used a blade?”

“Used one to spread jam on my bread just this morning,” Fentel says, laughing to himself as she groans. “It’ll be good practice for me, don’t you worry.”

Boba waits for Lanara to clear the way before drawing his own weapon. Fentel doesn’t raise his sword into any of the usual standard positions, but instead wields it low and pointed _down_ , held evenly in front of him with a steady grip. None of the guards had used this stance, but Boba recognizes it instantly; it originates from a region much further north, territory that has been within the Empire for decades. It’s almost deceptive in how open and vulnerable it looks, because in the right hands, the position allows for quick and vicious counterattacks.

The stance is often referred to as ‘Fool,’ and Boba’s never appreciated the name more than he does at this very moment.

Boba doesn’t wait long to begin, immediately leading with a careful offense knowing that Fentel is looking for the perfect moment to counter. Regardless of what prowess Fentel has with a blade, Boba still has the advantage of youth and size. All of his strikes are harder, more strength behind every blow, and he knows with certainty that Fentel will tire before he does so long as he doesn’t get caught out by any mistakes.

Fentel doesn’t make it easy. The physical limitations that come with his age are compensated for by quick thinking and incredibly precise control over every movement he makes. Rather than fumbling into a new stance whenever there’s a chance to readjust, Fentel deliberately shifts between positions, always knowing _exactly_ where his feet, hands, and blade need to be and shifting his momentum accordingly. It gives Fentel the tightest defense that Boba has ever seen, and though Fentel can’t get a solid counterattack in, Boba can’t seem to get a solid blow on him either.

Boba doesn’t keep track of how long it lasts. Even if there had been the time restriction of a minute like there was for the guards, Boba’s not sure he would’ve been able to keep count while trying to hold off Fentel. Eventually, just as Boba is starting to actually feel the ache in his muscles, Fentel yields, the old man out of breath and needing a moment to gather his bearings. One of the guards rushes over to give him some water, another offering to help him sit down.

It isn’t until he sheaths his sword that Boba realizes he’s also breathing hard from exertion, sweat trickling down his neck from inside the helmet. Distantly, he registers that the crowd of guards is making some loud racket, but he doesn’t pay it any attention. All he sees is you walking over out of the corner of his eye.

He turns and holds out his hand just as you pull out one of the rags from your satchel. You smile at his preemptive gesture, then surprise him by also offering a canteen of water. “Well, Boba? Have you been sufficiently entertained yet?”

“I can think of a few things I’d still like to do.” Boba purposefully looks you up and down and you blush, averting your eyes out of embarrassment. He chuckles and takes the canteen from you, pushing his helmet up enough to expose his mouth and taking a long drink. Your eyes are drawn back to him, watching the muscles of his neck work and the bob of his Adam’s apple. Boba would bet good money that you have no idea how obvious you’re both being right now.

He doesn’t have to look to know that Rhikar is trying to glare a hole into the back of his head.

Shortly after Boba finishes off the canteen and wipes the sweat from his face underneath the helm, Fentel hobbles his way over, looking only moderately more exhausted than when he’d arrived. “Now that was a thrill I haven’t had in quite some time!” Fentel pats Boba on the shoulder fondly, and Boba lets him. “Thank you for indulging this old man.”

“I knew you’d be put up a good fight.” Boba glances to Captain Lanara, who is across the field, addressing some of the guards, then back to Fentel, deciding to act on a hunch. “When I came here, I didn’t think I’d fight an Imperial officer.”

“Former officer,” Fentel clarifies, his tone still just as jovial as he confirms Boba’s suspicion. You don’t appear surprised by the information, but you do quietly slip away to speak to some of the guards, removing yourself from the conversation as Fentel continues to speak. “Though, I believe I’m technically ‘missing in action.’ Not that they’ll be finding me any time soon!” Fentel’s wheezing laughter at his own joke is…almost endearing. Almost.

“I’m impressed. Most officers don’t do much fighting on the field.” Troopers make up the bulk of the Empire’s forces these days, drafted foot soldiers with training only a little higher than this town’s militia. There are a few knighthoods within the Empire that are elite in their combat prowess, but they generally don’t include ranked officers, from what Boba understands.

“Not these days, they don’t. But a long, long time ago, we all had to learn how to hold our own.” Fentel glances over at you and sees that your attention is elsewhere, then looks back to Boba, expression turning somber. “That was before Jango, anyway.”

Boba visibly stiffens, becoming more rigid than his beskar plating. “…Not many people know about my father’s involvement with the Empire.”

“True.” Fentel offers a coy smile that lacks his usual mirth. He strokes his wispy beard and pretends to be deep in thought. “Now, what kind of person would know about the Empire’s secret dealings in dark magic…?”

The pieces start to come together, though Boba’s not sure how he feels about it once they do. “A Jedi would.” Boba looks at you again, watching as you talk and laugh with the guards. “Their mother?”

“I don’t believe she considered herself a Jedi by the end of things, but she was certainly a Jedi when we left the Empire.” You feel the weight of Boba’s stare and glance over, shooting him a curious look. Boba doesn’t respond and simply turns back to Fentel, who puts a hand on his shoulder again, heavier than before. “I can’t go speaking for either of them, but they both made great sacrifices for the sake of their children. Anyone would be proud to have a parent like that.” This time, Fentel’s smile is bright and genuine, bringing Boba a familiar sense of warmth and comfort he hasn’t felt in…too long. “And, given how badly you whooped the entire town guard, I’m sure Jango would be more than proud to see his boy today.”

That’s the _least_ impressive thing Boba’s done in the past month alone, but he can appreciate the sentiment. He gives Fentel a small nod. “Thank you.”

“I have a few stories about Jango myself, you know. If you’d ever like to hear them, you’re always welcome to come visit! The missus and I always appreciate the company. Like having younglings in the nest again...” Clearly aiming to shift the mood, Fentel leans in, stage whispering to Boba in a conspiratorial manner while fighting through his own giggles at what he’s about to say. “Now, if you were looking to start your _own_ family, I’m sure a certain shopkeeper in town would be more than happy to be part of it…”

Boba suddenly decides he’s had enough of Fentel for today. “Don’t laugh too hard, old timer. If you keel over, the town will have to find someone else to do your paperwork.” Predictably, Fentel starts laughing again in full force, and Boba uses the opportunity to return a pat on the shoulder to him, bidding him a brisk farewell.

Then Boba’s coming up alongside you, putting a hand on your lower back and surprising you as he gently steals you away from the guards you’ve been chatting with. “Do you need to head back to the shop? This was quite a detour from shopping.”

You sigh with genuine reluctance. “Yeah. Somebody has to go crush herbs into powder, after all. What are you planning to do?”

“I’m going to find somewhere to bathe.” The series of emotions that information puts you through is displayed clearly on your face, and Boba pretends to have no idea, keeping the way your obvious interest strokes his ego to himself. “I saw there’s a bath house by the inn, but,” he taps his helmet to emphasize his point, “if you know somewhere more private…”

You quietly consider him for a moment, biting your lip and weighing your options. “There’s…a spot along the river, in the forest. Far from where the bear lives. It might be a little cold, but I’ve never had an issue of running into anyone else while bathing there. I could…it’s, um, not _too_ far. I could probably spare the time to take you there, if you’d like.”

Boba’s hand on your back slowly trails upward, his fingers heavy along your spine. He feels you shudder under his touch and he grins, draping his arm across your shoulders. “I’d like to take you there, too.”

You frown at him even though your cheeks are flushed, trying to look indignant despite not objecting to the insinuation. “Maker, you’re insufferable.” You and him lapse into comfortable silence, and Boba simply basks in your company until you peek up at him with a question on your tongue. “Could...could you teach me to use a sword?”

A dangerous flare of heat burns through him from just _imagining_ it, and his grip on you tightens reflexively. If you notice, it doesn’t show on your face. Boba hums, as if he’s simply considering the possibility rather than already putting together a list of all the different things he wants to show to you and _do_ to you. “Possibly. I doubt you could be any more of a lost cause than the militia, at least.”

“We _really_ need to work on your ability to inspire others.”

“So I’ve been told.” As you and Boba return to the streets of the town, he keeps his arm wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close as he walks even as some of the townsfolk begin to spot the two of you together.

You don’t object to that, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you know damn well what's gonna be in the next chapter. get thirsty, friends
> 
> (also thank you SO SO MUCH to everyone who left comments!! I am...shy about responding but I do cherish them all and read them over again when I need motivation to write. y'all are wonderful, thank you for your kind words and support and I hope each and every one of you get to pet a dog today)

**Author's Note:**

> if you are enjoying this or there are any parts you particularly liked, please leave a comment, I desperately need the oxytocin


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